

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 


SB8WW 




mmak 



A I 'YAA- 
















FJtlC’U 30 


BY MRS. OLIPIIANT 


17 to 27 VaNdeW/ter, St 


ifl ewTof^K: 



New York Fireside Companion. 



for the Home Circle. 



PURE, BRIGHT AND INTERESTING. 


THE FIRESIDE COMPANION numbers among its contributors the best of 




living fiction writers. 


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A Fashion Article, embracing the newest modes, prices, etc., by a noted 
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MU I R 




MRS. OLIPHANT. 

^ - 


God pardon thee ! yet let me wonder, Harry, 

At thy affections 

The hope and expectation of thy time 
Is ruined: and the soul of every man, 
Prophetically, does forethink thy fall. 

King Henry IV, 








Co 







'O x O' 


MRS. OLIPHAXT’S WORKS 

CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION) : 

NO. 

45 A Little Pilgrim , 

177 Salem Cliapel 

205 The Minister’s Wife 

321 The Prodigals, and their Inheritance . . . 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
including some Chronicles of the Borough of Pendie 

345 Madam . . - . 

351 The House on the Moor . . 

357 John 

370 Lucy Crofton 

371 Margaret Maitland 

377 Magdalen Hepburn: A Story of the Scottish Reforma- 
tion 

402 Lilliesleaf; or. Passages in the Life of Mrs. 3Iargaret 
Maitland of Sunnyside ...... 

4)10 Old Lady Mary . . . . . . 

527 The Days of My Life . . . . ' . 

528 At His Gates . . ... . / . . 

568 The Perpetual Curate . . 

569 Harry Muir 


PRICED 

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30 

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10 

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20 


HARRY MUIR. 


CHAPTER 1. 

Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits. 

Two Gentlemen of Verona. 

And this is the pillar that Rob Roy hid behind, the Sabbath rir.v 
that be warned the young English gentleman in the kiik. It’s ike 
very place itsel’. Here was the pulpit — and the seats were a’ heie, 
and this is the pillar that hid Rob Roy.” 

A party of young men were in the crypt of Glasgow cathedral— 
the little, sleek, bumble-looking man, who very unobtrusively acted 
as cicerone, was pointing out to them the notability, with these 
w Drds. 

One of the visitors turned away with a grave smile, and leaving 
his companions, began to wander slowly down one of the long black 
aisles. The dim withdrawing vistas— the pillars with their floral 
chaplets— the singular grace and majesty of those dark and ponder- 
ous arches— impressed him with very different associations. The 
young man’s smile, slightly scorn! ill at first, melted as he reached 
the lower end, and looking up through this grand avenue, saw the 
little knot of dim figures in the distance. He was glad to escape 
from their laughter and unsuitable merriment. These noble oltL 
cloisters were too grave and solemn to have their stillness so invaded. 

Rut ne was not suffered long to remain uninterrupted in his con- 
templative mood. “ What ails Cuthbert?” said one of the younger 
of the party, a lad in the transition station between boy and man. 
“ See to him down yonder at the very end, like a craw in the mist 
— I say, Cuthbert!” 

As the piping shrill voice called out his name at its highest pitch, 
the young man began slowly to advance again. The Jad came for- 
ward to meet him. ” What are you smiling at— what did you go 
away for?” 

“ 1 was smiling at myself, John,” answered the accused. 

John was curious. ” What for?” 

“ For thinking there were things more interesting here, than the 
pillar that # hid Rob Roy. Come along— never mind. Where are 
they all bound for, now?” 

They were boifhd for a very dissimilar place — no other than the 
crowded Broomielaw, where John’s brothers were bent upon show- 
ing their Edinburgh cousin, Cuthbert Charteris, and an English 
stranger who accompanied them, one or two fine ships belonging to 
“ the house,” then in port. These young men were the sons of a 
prosperous merchant, all of them already in harness in the office 


4 


HARRY MUIR. 


and beginning to make private ventures on their own behalf. There 
were three of them — Richard, Alick, and John Buchanan; the two 
elder had reached the full dignity of young manhood, and rejoiced 
in mighty whiskers, which John, poor fellow, could only covet in- 
tensely, and cultivate with all his might; hut even John had begun 
to have the shrewd man of business engrafted on the boy, and was 
sometimes precociously calculating and commercial — sometimes 
disagreeably swaggering and loud— though not unfrequently sim- 
ple, foolish, and gent-rous, as better became his years. 

“ I say, Culhbert,” said the communicative John, as he swung 
his arm through his grave cousin’s, and fol'owed his gay brothers 
on the way to the river, “ did you ever see Ilarry Muir? Dick says 
he’s going to make him come and dine with us to-ntght.” 

“ Aud who is Harry Muir?” asked Charteris. 

“Oh, he’s nobody — only a clerk in the office, j T ou know — but 
you never saw sucn a clever chap. lie can sing anything you like. 
He’s a grand singer. And when Harry’s in a good humor, you 
should just hear him with the fellows in the office. My father 
looks out of his own room sometimes to see what’s the row, and 
there’s Gilchrist sucking his pen, and Macauley and Alick close 
down over their books, writing for a race, and Muir quite cool, and 
looking as innocent as can be. You should just see them, and see 
how puzzled my father is, when he finds that there’s no row at all!” 

" And in such emergencies, how do you behave yourself, 
Johnnie?” 

44 Johnnie! I wish you’d mind that I’m not a hoy now.” 

4 Jack, then! Will that please you, young man?” said Charteris, 
smiling. 

44 Me? 1 behave the best way I can,” said the mollified John. 
44 The best plan is, to set to working, and never let on that you hear 
the door open; but we like to get him among a lot of us when there’s 
nobody in the way; and you’ll just see to-night, Culhbert, what a 
grand fellow he is for fun.” 

Culhbert did not look very much delighted. 44 And when is this 
famous dinner to be?” he asked. “ Is Dick to entertain us at home?” 

Master John burst into a great laugh. “ Man, Cutlibert, what a 
simple fellow you are! You don’t think my mother would ask 
Harry Muir to dine.” 

44 And why not, my boy?” asked the Edinburgh advocate. 

44 Why net! Man. is that the way you do in the east country? 
He’s only a clerk, and everybody knows you Edinburgh folk are as 
proud as proud can be. Would you ask your clerk to dine with 
you?” 

44 1 don’t possess such an appendage, Sir Jehu,” sail the briefless 
barrister, 44 except it be a little scrubby boy like what you were the 
last time 1 was west here — and he ceitainiy would «ieed some 
brushing up So he’s not a gentleman, this wi^of yours? He 
would not be presentable in the drawing- room?” 

“Hum! 1 don’t know,” said honest John, hesitating. “ He 
looks quite as well as Dick or Alick, or that, JLiverpool man there.” 
The lad drew himself up and arranged his neckcloth complacently. 

There’s handsomer men,, to be sure- but ’ think Muir's better, 
looking than any of you. Culhbert'.” 


HARRY MUIR. 


5 


Charteris laughed: “ Is he not well-bred, then?’ 

“ Oh, yes, lie can behave himself well enough. He’s got a way* 
of his own, you know; but then he’s a clerk.” 

“ And so are you, Jack, my man,” said Charteris. 

“ Oh, yes, but there’s a difference. He’s got no money— and more- 
than tnat,” said the juvenile merchant, “he's got no enterprise, 
Cuthbert. There’s Alick. he had a share in a plan, sending out a 
lot. of things to San Francisco on a venture, just when the news 
came about the gold, you know, and he cleared a hundred pounds;, 
that’s the way to do. But then, that fellow Muir, he never tries a 
thing; and worse than that, he went, away and married somebody 
last year, and he had three sisters before, and them all living will* 
him. Just think of that. Four women all dragging a young man 
down when he might be rising in the world, lsnh it awful?” 

“ A very serious burden,” said Oharteiis, smiling; “ hut what is 
his salary, John?” 

II is salarv’s sixty pounds; my father gives very good salaries. 
He’s just a clerk, you know. 'The cashier has two hundred.” 

“ Sixty pounds! and live people live on sixty pounds!” said the 
lawyer. 

“ And they've got a baby,” said John, solemnly 

It was the climax; there was no more said. 

The respectable firm of George Buchanan & Sons had its office in 
a dingy businesss street near the Exchange. The earlj darkness ot 
the February night had almost blotted out the high somber houses 
opposite, except for the gh anting gas-light streaming from office 
windows in irregular patches from garret to basement. It was not 
a very busy time, and at five o’clock the clerks were preparing to 
leave the office. 

“ I say, Muir,” cried Richard Buchanan, bursting in hastily, 

come and dine with us.” 

Chatteris was behind. The famous Harry Muir was certainly 
handsome — very much better looking than any other of the party, 
and had a fine, sparkling, joyous, intelligent lace — but the lines of 
it had everything in them but firmness. 

“ Not to-night,” said ihe clerk, “ you must not ask me to-night.” 

“ Why not to-night?” said the young master. “ Come along 
now, Harry, do be a gcod fellow. AVliy, it’s just to-night ot all 
nights that we want you. There’s my Cousin Charteris, and there’s 
an Englishman; and we’re all as flat as the Clyde. Come along, 
Muir, don’t disoblige us.” 

“ 1 am very sorry,” said Muir, “ but 1 can’t stay in town to- 
night. Let me off to-night; 1 will be more obedient next time.” 

“ He wants to get home to nurse his wife,” said Buchanan, with 
a sneer. 

“ My wife is quite well,” answered Harry, with a quick flush of 
anger; “ she does not need my nursing, Mr. Buchanan.” 

“ Mr. BuchanaL! don’t be ill-natured, Harry — come along.” 

“ No, no; 1 carT not go to-night. I don’t think I can stay to- 
night,” said the brilliant, facile clerk. 

The entreaties continued a little longer; the resistance became 
feebler and more feeble, and at last, stipulating that he was to leave 
them early, the genius of the counting-house consented. 


6 


HARRY MUIR. 


“ Harry, my mao, send a message to your vvife,” said a grave 
snuffy person, who enjoyed the two hundred pounds a year ot which 
John had boasted, and was cashier to the Messrs. Buchanan. 

Harry wavered a moment. “ Where is the boy?’' 

“ Perhaps she’ll come for you, Harry,” suggested the malicious 
Buchanan. 

The poor clerk threw down, angrily, the pen he had taken up, 
anti lifted his hat. in another minute, with quickly recovered 
gayety, they went out in a band to the adjacent square where they 
were to dine. 

‘‘ There’s the makings of a capital man in that lad, and there’s 
the makings of a blackguard,” said the grave Mr. Gilchrist, shaking 
his head ruefully, and taking a pinch of snuff; ‘‘it’ll be a hard 
lace— which of them will win?” 

The dinner in George’s Square went off very well, and the young 
clerk, as he warmed, dazzled the little company; he was only a 
clerk— they were inclined lo patronize him at other times — but now 
the unmistakable, undesired pre-eminence, which these young men 
yielded to their poor companion, was a noticeable thing. The mut- 
ter of ambition now, was, who should seem most intimate with, 
who should most attract the attention of, the brilliant clerk. 

Outhbert Charteris was a more completely educated man than 
any other of the party. The thorough literary training will not ally 
itself to the commercial, as it seems. None of the young merchants 
had time for the long discipline and athletic mental exercises of the 
student. They were all making money before they should have been 
well emancipated from the school-room— all independent men when 
they should have been boys — and the contrast was marked enough. 
There was a good deal ot boisterousness in their enjoyment, and 
they were enjoying themselves heartily, while Outhbert, getting 
very weary, felt himself only preserved from utter impatience of 
their mirth by the interest with which the stranger inspired him — 
this poor, clever, facile Harry Muir. 

The quick mind of this young man seemed to have attained some- 
how to the resultB of education without the training and discipline 
which forms so principal a part of it. He seemed to have been a 
desultory reader, a devourer of everything which came in his way, 
and while the Buchanans knew few books beyond the serial litera- 
ture of the time, harry threw delicate allusions about him, which 
it seemed he made only for his own enjoyment, since the arrows 
flew most innocently over the heads of all the rest. Threads of 
connection with those great thoughts which form the common 
country of imaginative minds, ideas radiating out from the center 
of these, like the lessening circles in the water— the student Outhbert ' 
heard and understood, and wondered — the Buchanans applauded, 
and did not understand. 

One of them at last proposed to go to the theater— the rest chimed 
in eagerly. Outhbert, anxious to have the evening concluded as 
soon as possible, and resolving to seek no more of the delectable 
society of his young cousins except at home, where they were toler- 
able, remonstrated only to be laughed at and overpowered. The 
grown-up, mature, educated man resigned himselt to their boyish 
guidance very wearily— and what would tlieii wit do now? 


HARRY MUIR. 


7 


lie said he would go home — he took up his hat, aud played hesi- 
tatingly with his gloves. He was excited with the company, the 
applause, and a little with the wine, and was permitting himself to 
parley with the tempter. 

“ Come along, Muir, it’s only for once: let us just have this one 
night.” 

“ Ho, no.” • The noes grew faint; the hesitation increased. He 
consented again. 

And so, louder and more boisterous than before, they again en- 
tered the busy streets. John Buchanan was a good deal inclined to 
be obstreperous. It was all that Cuthbeit could manage to keep 
him within bounds. They had reached the Trongate, and Cuthbert 
stopped his young companion a moment to look down the long 
gleaming line of the crowded street. It had been wet in the morn- 
ing, and the brilliant light from the shop windows glistened in the 
w T et causeway in long lines, and the shifting groups of passengers 
went and came, ceaselessly, and the hum ami din of the great 
thoroughfare was softened by the gloom and brightened by the 
light of traffic that illuminated all. 

“ What are you looking at? See! they’re all away across the 
street. What’s the good of glowering down the Trongate? Man, 
Cuthbert, how slow you are,” said John Buchanan, dragging the 
loiterer on. 

There was a crowd on the opposite side which bad absorbed the 
others. Cuthbert and John crossed over. 

The accident which attracted the crowd was a very common one 
— an overtasked horse, wearied with the long day’s labor, had stum- 
bled and fallen; and now, the weight of the cart to which it was 
attached having been removed, was making convulsive plunges in 
the effort to rise. The carters, and the kindred class who are al- 
ways to be found ready in such small emergencies, were leaping 
aside themselves, and pressing back the lookers on^ as the poor 
animal struck out his great weary limbs, endeavoring to raise him- 
self from the ground. 

Suddenly there was a shrill cry — “ The wean — look at the wean; 
the brute’s tit’ll kill the wean.” 

John Buchanan had pushed his way into the crowd, dragging 
with him the reluctant Cuthbert— and there indeed, close to the 
great hoofs of the prostrate animal, stood one of those little, pale, 
careworn, withered children whom one sees only in the streets of 
great cities, and ofteuest only at this unwholesome hour of night. 
But the acuteness peculiar to the class seemed to have forsaken the 
very little, wrinkled old man of the Trongate, He was standing 
where the nexl plunge would inevitably throw him down, with the 
strange scared look which is not fear, common to children in great 
peril, upon his small, white, puckered lace. Again the panting horse 
threw out his hoofs in another convulsive exertion. The child was 
down. 

A shade tv shot across the light. There were several cries of 
women. The chihl was thrown into somebody’s arms uninjured. 
The horse was on its feet, aud a man, indistinctly seen in the midst 
of the eager crowd, struggled ineffectually to raise himself from the 
ground, where he had fallen. 


8 


HARRY MUIR. 




“1 am hurt a little,” said the voice of Harry Muir. ‘‘Never 
mind, it is not much, 1 dare say. Some of you help me up. ” 

There was a rush to assist him; a burst of eager inquiries. 

“ I got a blow from the hoof; ah I 1 can’t tell what it is,” gasped 
the young man, over whose face the pallor of deadly sickness was 
stealing. He could not stand. They carried him — these rough 
slroug men, so gentlv — with his fiiends crowding abqut him, to the 
nearest surgeon’s. Everybody was sympathetic; every one inter- 
ested. But Harry Muir's head had sunk upon his breast, and the 
iiedit had gone lrom his eyes. He was conscious of nothing but 
pain. 

The accident was a serious one; his leg was broken. 


CHAPTER IT. 


He sent me hither, stranger as I am, 
To tell this story. 


As You Like It. 


“ Cuthbert,” said Richard Buchanan, “ do, like a good fellow, 
go and tell his wile.” 

“ Do you not see, man, that a stranger would alarm her more? 
Why make me the messenger? You say she knows you, Dick.” 

“ Ay, she knows him,” said the second brother, ‘‘ but she does 
not know him for any good. You see, Cuthbert, Dick’s always 
enticing poor Muir away— as he did to-night — and the wife wouldn’t 
flatter him if he went up now.” 

” I don’t care a straw for the wife,” said Richard angrily. “ It’s 
yon grim sister Martha, and that white-faced monkey of a girl 1 
say. Cuthbert— you needn’t go in, and they don’t know you— do go 
beiore and tell them lie’s coming. I’ll come up with him myself 
in the noddy — just to oblige me, Cuthbert, will you go?” 

“lie lives in Port Durdas Road, it’s not very far. John will > 
show you wiiere it is,” urged Alick. 

Cuthbert consented to go; and the obstreperous John was very 
much subdued, and very ready to accompany his cousin to poor 
Muir’s house. It was now nearly ten o’clock. The young men 
were all greatly concerned, and in an inner room poor Harry was 
getting his leg examined, and looking so deadly sick aud pale as to 
alarm both surgeon and friends. It was his temperament, so finely 
organized, as to feel either pain or pleasure far more exquisitely, 
than is I lie common lot. 

“ What will you say to them? Man, Cuthbert, are you not 
feared?” asked John. 

” Why should I be feared? I ant very sorry for her, poor woman * 
— but is she such a lury, this wile?” 

“ It’s not the wife, it’s his eldest sister. Dick went home with 
Muir ODe night when he wasn’t quite able to take care of himself, 
•and 1 cau tell you Dick was feared.” 

Dick was to blame— I do not feel that I am,” said Charteris; 

” but why was he afraid? — did she say so much to him?” 

“ Shed dn t say anything to him: but you know they say she’s 
awful passionate, and she’s a great deal older than Harry; and she’s 


HARRY MUIR. 9 

just been like bis mother. They’re always so strict, these old maids 
— and Miss Muir’s an old maid.” 

“ W nit, then, till I see, John,” said Cuthbert; “don’t try to in- 
timi.late me.” 

“ Yonder’s the house,” said John. 

They had just passed a great quarry, across which the dome of 
some large building loomed dark against the sky. Then there wa3 
a field raised high above the road, with green grass waving over the 
copestoue of a high wall, and at the end of the field stood a solitary 
house. A house of some pretension, for it boasted its street-door, 
and was “ selt-contained;” and albeit the ground floor on either 
side was occupied by two not very ambitious shops, the upper flat 
looked substantial and respectable, although decayed. 

They were on the onposite side— the street was very quiet, and 
their stepsuind voices echoed through it so clearly that the loud 
John sunk into whispering and felt himself guilty. The light of 
a very pale moon was shining into one of the windows. Looking 
up, Cuthbert saw some one watching them -eagerly pressing against 
the dark dull panes; as they crossed the street, the face suddenly 
disappeared. 

“ That's one of them,” whispered John. “ Isn’t it awful that a 
poor fellow can’t be out a little late, but these women are watching 
for him that way?” 

Cuthbert did not answer. He was thinking of “ these women, 
and of tlieir w T atching, rather than of the poor fellow who was the 
object of it. 

They had not time to knock, when the door was opened wide to 
them, and a pale girl’s face looked out eagerly. She shrunk back 
at once with a look of blank disappointment which touched Cuth- 
bert’s heart. “ l—l beg your pardon— 1 thought it was my brother.” 

“ Your brother will be here very soon. He has done a very brave 
tiling to-night, and has had a slight accident in consequence. 1 beg 
you will not he alarmed,” said Cuthbert hastily. 

“ Oh! come in. sir. come in,” said the youDg sister. “ A very 
brave tiling.” She repeated it again and again, under her breath. 

“ There’s the noddy,” whispered John, as he lingered behind. 
“]’h wait and help him in.” 

The door admitted into a long paved passage, terminating in a 
little damp “ green.” John Buchanan remained at the door, while 
Cuthbert followed the steps of his eager conductor, through the 
passage, aud up an outside stair/ iuto the house. She seemed 
very eager, aud only looking round to see that he followed her, ian 

into a ft tile parlor. . , , . 

“ Harry is coming. He has been helping somebody, and has hurt 
himself, Martha; the gentleman will tell you,” exclaimed poor 
Harry’s anxious advocate, placing herself beside the chair where sat 
a tall faded woman, sternly composed and quiet. 

“ is Harry hurt?” cried another younger and prettier person, who 
occupied the seat of honor by the fire-side. 

“ He has done a very brave thing;” Cuthbert heard u whispered 

earnestly, into the elder sister’s ear. 

He told them the story. The little wife was excited and nervous 
—she began to cry. The sister Martha sat firmly in her chair, her 


HARRY MUIR. 


10 

stern face moved and melting. The younger girl stood behind, with 
her arm round her sister, aud her bright tearful face turned toward 
'Chart eris. “Our Harry— our poor Harry! it tvas this iha! kept 
him, Maltha— and he saved the child.” 

“ What shall we do? AVill he be lame?” sobbed the little wife. 

The srra^e Martha suddenly rose from her chair as the faint sound 
of wheels reached them. “ He is here. Hose, make the room ready 
for him, poor fellow. Do not let him see you crying. Agnes. Come 
to the door, and meet him.” 

They went away hastily, leaving Charteris still in the room. 
Rose vanished by another door into an inner apartment. They were 
overmuch excited and anxious to remember the courtesy due to a 
stranger; and the stranger, for his part, was too much interested to 
leave them until he had seen how the sufferer bore his removal. 

“Rose,” said a very small voice, “has Harry come home?— 
Rose!” Charteris looked round him a good deal puzzled, for there 
was no visible owner of the little voice. There certainly was a 
-cradle in a corner, but nothing able to speak could inhabit that. 

“ Rose!” 

There was no answer. Then there followed a faint rustling, and 
then a third door opened, and a little head in a white nightcap, 
looked out with a pair of bewildered dark eyes, and suddenly shrunK 
in again, when it found tiie room in possession of a stranger. The 
stranger smiled at his own somewhat strange position, and began to 
move toward the door — but suddenly the cradle gave sound of life, 
and a lusty baby voice began to cry. They were carrying the baby’s 
father then, into the house. The good-humored Cuthert rocked the 
cradle. 

Poor Harry was still very pale, though the surgeon who accom- 
panied him was as tender of him as the most delicate nurse, and the 
strong young arms of the Buchanans carried the patient like a child. 
They made their escape immediately, however— but divided between 
sympathy for the family, and a consciousness of his own somewhat 
ridiculous position, Cuthbeit stood at his post, rocking the refrac- 
tory cradle. Tney all passed into the inner apartment. He was 
alone again. 

It was a very plain parlor, and various articles of feminine work 
were scattered about the room: some small garment for the sleeping 
baby lay on the ground, where it had fallen from the young moth- 
er’s hand; on the table, where Martha had been sitting, was a piece of 
fine embroidery, stretched on two small hoops which fitted closely 
into each other. She had been engaged in filling up the buds and 
-blossoms of those embroidered flowers with a species of fine needle- 
work, peculiar to Glasgow and its dependent provinces. Another 
hoop, and another piece of delicate work, remained where Rose had 
left it. The sisters of the poor clerk maintained themselves so. 

The baby voice had ceased. Groans of low pain were coming 
from the inner room. Cuthbert felt that he did wrong to wait, 
and turned again toward the door— but just then Miss Muir entered 
the parlor. 

“ Tne doctor thinks he will do well,” said Martha. “ To-night 
1 can hardly thank you. But he is everything to us all— poor 




HAR11Y MUIR. 


II 


Ha Tr j r !— and to-night you will excuse us. We can tliink of noth- 
ing but himself. Come again, and let us thank you?” 

i will come in the "morning,” said Cutbbert, ‘‘not to be 
thanked, but to hear how be is. Good-night.” 

She went wilhhim to the cloor, gravely and calmly: when she bad 
shut it upon him. she stood still, alone in the dark, to press her 
hands against her heart. Again— again! -so long she had hoped 
that this facile temper would be steadied, that tins poor bril.iant 
wandering star would be fixed in his proper orbit. So often, so 
drearily, as her hopes had sunk into that blank of pain. Poor 
Barry! it was all they could say of him. When others praised the 
gay wit, the happy temper, the quick intelligence, those to whom 
he was dearest, could only say, poor Harry! tor the good and pleas- 
ant gifts he had, made the bitterness of their grief only the deeper. 
Their pride in him aggravated their shame. Darkest and saddest 
of all domestic calamities these women, to whom he was so very 
dear could not trust the ro a n in \Ahom all their hopes and wishes- 
centered. He had not lost their affection-# seemed only the more 
surely to yearn over and cling to him, for his faults but he had 

l0 Th<>v coukf'not believe liim: they could not rely upon word or 
resolution ot his. When Harry was an hour later than his usual 
time of home-coming, Martha grew rigid in her chair, her stiong 
heart beating so loud that almost she could not hear those footsteps 
in the street for which she watched with silent eagerness; and the 
work fed from the hands of the young wife, and Rose stole away, 
pale and agitated, into the inner room, to watch at the window m 
the darkness; and even the little sister— the chiid-was nioyed wiOit 
the indefinite dread and melancholy which is the grief of childhood. 

There were many grave people who would have smiled at poor 
Harry’s sins, and counted them light and venial, but so did not 

th To lose confidence in those who are most dear to us, to he able 
no longer to trust word or vow— it is the climax of womanish misery 
—a caTainitv terrible to bear! . 

And Martha Muir, under this discipline, was growing old. Morn- 
ing after morning there had been a rebound of eager hope, only to 
be utterly cast down when the night fell. She had had something 
ot the mother’s pride in him— had transferred to Harry the natural 
ambition the eager hopes and wishes, which for herself had all 
faded with her fading prime— and now, she who had so strong a. 
will so resolute a mind, to see this man with all his gifts, ana the 
freescope lie had to exercise them sinking, falhng, tarnishingwUk 
mean sins the luster and glory of Ins youth. Poor Han y ! ms 
stern sad sister said nothing more ot blame— but as she turned again 
alon<>’ the damp passage, and up the stairs, the heart within her 
sunk into the depths. She pressed her hands upon it. Grange 
sympathy betweeS the frame and the spirit, which makes it no im- 
age to say that there is a weight upon the heart! > . .. 

Martha has Harry come home?” said the little sister, standing, 
in her white night-dress at the door of the small bed- closet which 

in ncr w i e rvirlor The child's eyes were bright and wide 

open! as it, in her compulsory solitude in the closet, she had been 


12 


HARRY MUIR. 


steadily fixing them to keep herself awake. “ When 1 looked out 
1 saw a gentleman. And where’s Kose and Agues, Martha. Is 
Hurry no weel?” 

“ You mud go to bed, Violet,” said Martha. “ Poor Ilarry has 
got a bioken leg. He was in t lie Trongate to night with the Buch- 
anans. and saved a child’s life— but you can not see him to-night — 
the doctor is witii him just now, poor fellow; go to bed — you shall 
see him to-moirow.” 

Litile Violet began to cry, and the dark bewildered wide open 
eyes locked up inquiringly into Martha’s face. Violet knew that 
Hairy did not need to be in the Trongate with the Buchanans, and 
that they all waited for him very long before they would take their 
humble cup ot tea. 

“ He will not be able to go out for a long time, Violet— and be 
saved die bairn’s life,” sai’d Martha as she put her little sister into 
the dark clo>et bed, which she liersell and Rose shared, “ and you 
must not cry — rather be thankful that the little boy’s mother has 
not lost him, Lrttie, and a- k God to bless poor Harry — poor Harry! 
do you know you should always think of him, Violet, when you 
pray?” 

“And so 1 do, Martha,” said littie Violet, looking up through 
her tears as she clung to her elder sister, the only mother she had 
ever known. 

“ Then you must let me go to him now, poor fellow,” said Martha. 
“Plush! lie will hear you crying— lie still, Lettie, and tall asleep.” 

One ot Violet’s tears rested i.n Martha’s faded cheek — other tears 
came as she wiped it away. “ Poor bairn— poor bairn, ’’said the 
elder sister,” 1 might be her mother— and so 1 am.” 

When she entered the sick-room the surgeon was just preparing 
to leave it. He had set the broken bone, and done all that could 
be done to give Ids patient ease. Harry, greatly exhausted, and 
deadly pale, was lying quiet, not strong enough to express even his 
suffering by more than a faint groan — and his wife and Kose 
watched anxiously beside him. But Harry’s mind was very much 
at ease, and tranquil. His accident covered triumphantly any 
error he had committed, and his anxious attendants were tranquil 
audsaiisfied mo — for who could think ot Harry’s fault or weak- 
ness, when Harry’s generous bravery had brought him so much 
pain? They were -content to believe— and they did believe, poor 
eager loving heaits! that no one else could have oeen so daring — no 
one else had so little thought of personal safety— and were saying, 
with tears in their eyes, what a providence it was tor the child and 
its mother, that “ our Hairy,” and no other, was there to rescue it. 

“ 1 am to sit up with him, Martha,” said the little wife. 

“But there is the baby, Agnes,” said Rose; “ you must let me 
sit up with Harry.” 

“ You must go away, both of you, and sleep,” said Martha. 
“Hush, speak low! I can not trust any of you, bairns— 1 must 
watch him myself. No, lit le matron, not you. 1 must take care 
of my boy myself — mv poor Harry!” 

These words so often said— expressing so much love, so much 
grief— they were echoed in the hearts ot all. 

Poor Planry! but his conscience did not smite him to night, only 


HARRY MUIIi. 


13 


his heart melted into tenderness for those who were so very tender 
of him, and involuntarily there came into his mind gentle thoughts 
of all he would do for them when he was well again, foi Harry 
never feared for himself. 

They left his wife with him for a short time, and returned to the 
fireside of the 1 it tie parlor— it was Saturday night, and some ot their 
delicate work had to be finished, if possible, before the twelve 
o’clock bell should begin the Sabbath day. 

They were but lodgers in ttds house. The mistress of it. a de- 
cayed widow — strong in her ancient gentility — had three daughters, 
who maintained themselves and an idle brother by the same work 
which occupied the Muirs The collars and cuffs and handker- 
chiefs of richer women, embroidered by other workers, principally 
in Ayr and Ayrshire, were given out at warehouses in Glasgow, to 
the Muirs and Rodgers, and' multitude s of other such, to be 
“ opened,” as they called it— which “ opening ” meant filling up the 
center of the embroidered flowers with delicate open-woiK in a vari- 
ety of “ stitches ” innumerable. Very expert, and very industrious 
workers at this could, in busy times, earn as much as ten weekly 
shillings — and thus it was that Maltha and Rose Muir supported 
themselves and their little sister, and were no burden on the scanty 
means ot Harry. 

“Well, Martha?” said Rose, breathlessly, as the door of the inner 
room closed upon the little wife. 

Martha could not lift up her eyes to meet her sister’s. “Well, 
my dear?” 

"I am sure,” said Rose, ‘T am sure you are quite satisfied to- 


night.” . , , 

“ Surely, surely,” said the less hopeful sister— a sigh bursting, 
in spite of her, out of her heavy heart. 

“ Surely, surely— what do you mean, Martha?” said the dissatis- 
fied Rose. '• Poor Harry! you are surely pleased witn him to- 
night.” 

“ 1 said so. Rose.” said Martha. “ Poor Harry!’ 

The young sister did not speak for a moment— then she put her 
work away and covered her face with her hands. 

“ You will never trust him— you vvil. never trust Harry, Martha!” 

Maltha sighed. “ 1 will trust God, Rose.” 

Rose Muir dried her eyes, and look up her work again— there 
was nothing to be said after that. 

Maitba was rocking the cradle softly with her foot; and Martha, 
mother-like, was fain to divert the younger heart, and make it 
lighter than her own. “Our pool wee Harry,” she said with a 
smile “ Did you see what a strange nurse he had to-night?” 

“ Was it the gentleman?” said Rose; “ did you say anything to 
him, Martha? he would think us very ungrateful.” 

“1 can trust the person who rocks our cradle, said Martha. 
" He is coming back to-morrow to be thanked.” 

“ On Sabbath day!” . 

“ It is charity to come to Harry, said Martha. Poor Harry, 

how every one likes him!” 

Their eyes were becoming wet again— it was a relief to hear a 
quiet knock at the parlor door. 


14 


HARRY MUIR. 


The visitor was the younger Miss Rodger— a large, soft, clumsy, 
good-humored girl, with a pleasant comely face. She wore a 
broken-down faded gown, which had once been very gay, and a 
little woolen shawl, put on unevenly, over her plump shoulders, 
and her hair in its inclosure ot curl-papers for the night; ends of 
thread were clinging to the fringes of the shawl, and the young lady 
was tugging it over her shoulders, conscious of deficiencies below ; 
but the good-humored offer to ' ‘ take the wean,” or do anything 
that might be needed, covered the eccentricities of Miss Aggie’s 
general house dress and appearance. The precious child was not 
intrusted to her, but the hoyden’s visit enlivened the sisters, :md 
immediately after they finished their work, and Martha saw Rose 
and Agnes prepare for rest, and then took her own place noiselessly 
by her brother’s bedside. 


CHAPTER 111. 

How still and peaceful is the Sabbath morn ! — 

The pale mechanic now has room to breathe. 

Graham. 

Early on the following morning Cuthbert Oharteris, after a long 
walk trom his uncle’s house, presented himself at Harry Muir’s 
door. The street was very still and Sabbath-like. Some young 
workmen, in suits of snowy moleskin, stood grouped about the 
corner of the Cowcaddens, enjoying the sunshine, and some few T 
who were of the more respectable church-going class, and could 
not spend the after part ot the day in such a manner, were return- 
ing from earij 1 walks. There were very few shadows, however, 
to break the quiet undisturbed sunshine of the usually crowded 
street. 

The blinds were all drawn down in Mrs. Rodger’s respectable 
house— all except one in the little parlor of the Muirs. The outer 
door stood ajar— it was generally so during the day— and as Cuth- 
bert proceeded up the stairs, the grave, doleful voice of some one 
reading aloud struck on his ear. This, and the closely veiled win- 
dows, made him somewhat apprehensive— and he quickened his 
pace in solicitude for the sufferer. 

The door ot the house was opened to him by a little slipshod 
pseudo-Irish girl, who held the very unenviable situation of servant 
to Mrs. Rodger. The door opened into a large airy lobby, at the 
further end of which was Harry Muir’s little parlor: but. Cuthbert ’s 
attention was drawn to another open door, through which he had 
a glimpse of a large kitchen, with various figures, in strange dis- 
habille, pursuing various occupations in it— one engaged about her 
toilet — one preparing breakfast— and another trying to smooth out 
with her hands the obstinate wrinkles of a green silk gown. They 
were talking without restraint, and moving about continually, 
while, at a large deal table near the window, with her back turned 
to the open door, sat a tall old woman in a widow’s cap, with a 
volume of sermons in her hand reading aloud. The voice was most 
funereal and monotonous, the apartment darkened by the blind 
which quite covered the window.” One of the daughters caught a 


15 


HARRY MUIR. 


Cutlibert 


glimpse of the stranger, and hastily closed the door, 
turned to the little parlor with a puzzled smile 

The room was small, and furnished with a faded carpet, an old 
sot-i halt a dozen ponderous mahogany chairs, and the cradle 
which Cutlibert had rocked the previous night. The little table was 
covered with a white table-clDth and glancing witn cups and 
saucers; and by the side of the little clear tire the kettle was singing 
meirily Rose, in her Sabbath dress of brown merino, stood at the 
window with the baby. Martha, newly relieved from her Jong 
night’s vigil in the sick-room, was cutting bread and bn toe 

table; and in the arm-chair, with great enjoyment of the dignity 
sat Violet her attention divided between the psalm she was learning 
and the 1 it tie handsome feet in their snowy-wliite woolen stockings 
and patent-leather shoes which 9lie daintily rested upon the fender. 
As Cutlibert entered the room the young wife looked out from the 
door of the inner apartment, with her finger on her tip, to telegraph 
Harrv had fallen asleep. They were all of that sanguine mood 
and temperament which springs up new with the light of the morn- 
ing. anTeven on the pale dark face of Martha there were hopeful 

SJ3 “ The surgeon has been here already,” she said, and Harry is 
not suftering’so much as we feared he should. The symptoms are 
all favorable, aud we may hope that it will have no a^ow ’ Mr 
doctor says that he will not be lame, poor fellow, now Mr 
Charteris, we have to thank you for preparing us so gently ^ 
for the accident. It was very kind— very kind— to take &o disagree 
able an office on yourself, and not to leave it to you^cousins 

•• 1 can assure you they were sincerely grieved, said Cuthbert, 

<• and are very anxious about your brother. ... 

™Tiiev are only lads,” said Martha, quietly. “ and have not the 
consideration. ^We could not trust youths like them, as we can 
dust a move .nature judgment. For our own sates 1 am very 
glad, Mr. Charteris, that you saw poor Hairy s accident, and tne 

Ca cihbel t rCh 0 a°rteds rr wC very mud. interested-so much so. that 
it did not occur lo him what a very unau.iablelime he had c .osen for 
his visit-nor that the teapot on one side of the 
was beginning io puff a faint intimation that it had been left there 
mo lornv and that the kettle on the other was boiling away, li was 
very nearly ten o’clock, and, in a few minutes, the church going 
bells would rin^ forth their summons. Rose began to look embar- 
rasLr and tTdread being too late for church, but the gentleman 
was talking to the baby aud to Martha, and steadily kept his i place. 

At last Rose listening in terror for the first notes of the bell, shy- 
ly suggested* to ilartlm that, perhaps Mr. Charteris had not break- 

^But Mi Chatteris had breakfasted, and as Martha lifted the 
puffing "teapot from fhe place which was too ^t-'tand bade 
Violet lav down her psalm-book, and began to fill tne cup., jui. 
Clrirteris^drew his seat into the window, and kept possession. He 

had settled himself already quite on the a “ f on'uie fresh 

b^tran to teel it very pleasaut to sit there, looking out on tne iresn 
wintry sunshine, and the clean humble families who began to set 


HARRY MUIR. 


16 

out in little bands for tlie far-away old parish churches of Glasgow 
—not choosing 10 content ibemcelves with the chapel -of-ease, polite 
ly called St. George’s-in-the- Fields— profanely, the Black Quarry. 
There were a few such in this immediate neighborhood, who went 
to the Barony, and the Tron and High Churches, as old residenteis, 
and rather looked down uoou the new. To look out on these — the 
mechanic father and thrifty mother, and group of homespun chil- 
dren, embellished, perhaps, with a well-dressed daughter, working m 
the mills, and making money — and to look in again upon the littJe 
bright breakfast-table, and the three sisters— the mature, grave, 
elder woman — the Rose, in the flush of her fairest years, half-blown 
—the little, shy, dark eyed child— Mr. Charteiis felt himself very 
comfortable. 

They had to speak very 1ow t , for Agnes stole 1 to the door of the 
inner room now and then, to lay her finger on her lips again, and 
telegraph the urgent necessity for silence — and speaking in half 
whispers makes even indifferent convention, look confidential. 
The friendship waxed apace— very rarely did such a man as Char- 
teris come within sight or knowledge of this family. The atmos- 
phere of commerce is rarely literary — in their class they had read of 
the fully equipped intellectual man, but had met him never. 

They themselves were of an order peculiar to no class, but scat- 
tered through all; without any education worth speaking of, except 
the two plain indispensable faculties of reading and writing, Harry 
Muir ami his sisters, knowing nothing of the world, had uncon- 
sciously reached at and attained the higher society which the world 
of books and imagination opens 1 o di licate minds. They were not, 
aware that their own taste was unusually refined, or their own in- 
tellect more cultivated than their fellows, but they were at once 
sensible of Cuthbert’s superiority, and hailed it with eager regard — 
not without a little involuntary pride either, to find that this, almost 
the most highly cultivated person they had ever met, was, after all, 
only equal to them Bel ves. 

There are the bells,. echoing one after another, through the now 
populous stieets. Mrs. McGarvie, from the little shop below, has 
locked her door, and issues forth, with her good man, who is a 
rope maker a id deacon of his trade, to the Barony Kirk, with Rab, 
her large good-humored red-haired son, and her little metty daugh- 
ter Ellen, a worker in the mill, following in her train; and with 
great dignity, in green silk gowns and tippets of fur, Miss Jeanie 
and Miss Aggie Rodger sail from the door, bound for the Relief 
Meeting-house, while Rose Muir ties on Violet’s neat bonnet, and 
arranges her little cloak, and glides away herself to complete her 
own dress, wonderiug, with a little flutter, what Mr. Charteris will 
do now. 

Mr. Charteris very speedMy decided the question, for he stood 
waiu’ng, with his hat in his hand, when Rose entered the parlor, 
cloaked and bonneted. Mr. Charteris had never heard Dn Jamie- 
son. He thought, it the young ladies would permit him, he should 
be glad to walk with them to the church. 

And the young ladies did permit him, with much shy good will, 
and Mr. Charteris listened to Dr Jamieson’s fine voice and pol- 
ished sentences with great edification. The doctor was a man in 


1 LA lilt Y MUIR. 


17 


his prime, bland and dignified, and knew all the economics of ser- 
mon-writing, and that famous art ot domestic wisdom which makes 
a little go a great way; nevertheless, Mr. Charters turned back some 
distance on the road, when the service was ended, to animadvert , 
upon the doctor, and to get up a very pretty little controversy with 
Rose, who, as in duty bound, refused to hear a word in detriment 
ot her minister, so that the discussion carried Mr. Charteris back 
a"ain to the veiy door, and gave him another prospect of the Misses 
Rodger’s green silk gowns, at sight ot which, raising his hat, to the 
great admiration ot Violet, Mr. Chaiteiis turned reluctantly away* 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ For the sweet spring that bringeth joy to all, 
Frets the pale sufferer bound to painful couch, 
Or chamber dim and still.” 


The following evening was signalized in the quiet house ot Mr. 
Buchanan, bv such a discussion as never before startled its respecta- 
ble echoes. Cuthbert Charteris, lawless as lshmael, lifted his hand 
against every man, and refused to confess himself worsted, though 
George Buchanan and Sons, as a firm, and as individuals, not to 
speak of Adam Smiih, and the law of supply and demand, were set 
in battle array agaiust him. • , 

The subject of controversy was one which would have made the 
blood boil with indignation and wrath in the veins of Harry Muir, 
bein" nothing less, indeed, for a starting-point, than liis salary, 
which the advocate, looking on the matin in a theoretical point of 
view, and not admitting into his consideration the “ everybody- 
else ” whose practice had so large a share in forming the opinions 
of his cousins, condemned very strongly and clearly, to the great 
wrath ot Richard and Alick, and the half-convinced irritation of 
their fattier, as quite an uufair and inadequate remuneration tor the 
full time and labors of an— at least partially— educated man. Cutli- 
beit had not. at all a commercial mind, and the natural right and 
justice continually overshadowed with him the laws of supply and 
demand. It was impossible to persuade him, that any law required 
ot him a systematic wrong, nor that a man’s own personal con- 
science had nothing to do with Ins position as an employer nf other 
men. Cuthbert would not he convinced- neither would Dick and 

Adick and Mr. Buchanan himself, head of the firm and the house, 

took up his candle abruptly and went off, in some excitement, to 
his own apartment, thereto sleep upon sundry propositions which 
had entered, like* arrows, sharp aud irritating, into a mind wnich 
would hear reason, whether its possessor chose or no. 

Cuthbert remained some weeks in Glasgow— he had little practice 
to neglect at bonne, and the western magnates made much of him, 
greatly esteeming in their hems the nv tropolitau rank so very 
different from their own, which they affected to despise;— and the 
intercourse which he had with the Muirs already bore a character 
of friendliness and confidence, such as not unusually elevates an 
acquaintance foimed at some family crisis, into a warm and lasting 
friendship. But Charteris at length was going home, and, not with- 


18 


KARRY MUIR. 


out many jibes from his young cousins, about the strange attraction 
which drew him so often to visit the invalid, he set out from the 
office for the last time to see Harry Muir. 

Very different is the look which this bustling street bears in its 
every-day occupation from the Sabbath quie*ness which hushes all 
its voices. Gieut carts are constantly passing with ostentatious din 
and clamor, as if proud of their load— light unburdened ones fly- 
ins up and down, with the driver perched on his little moveable 
seat, and the end of the ivhip floating like a streamer over his horse’s 
head— while now and then wearied iiaveling people come slowly 
down, carrying box and carpet-bag, fresh from the tedious journeys 
of the canal. Violet Muir stands at the door of the little room 
wherein Mrs. McGarvie lives, and eats, and sells butter, brose- 
meal, and “ speldrens,” lovingly conversing with Tiger, Mrs. Mc- 
Garvie’s great, ferocious, sinister-looking dog. He is by no means 
prepossessing, this friend of Violet's, and has a wiry j'ellow coat, 
and a head largely developed in the animal parts, and small in the 
intellectual, with a fiery red, truculent eye;— yet, nevertheless, he is 
Violet’s friend, and the little girl, like the fairy Titan ia, has beauty 
enough in her own eyes and heart to glorify her friend withal — so 
Tiger is sufficiently adorned. 

Shaking hands kindly in passing, and patting the little shy head 
which drooped under his eye, Cuthbert went upstairs through the 
always open door to the now familiar parlor. Harry was rapidly 
recovering; he had'been removed from his room tor the first time 
to-day, and now lay on the sofa, while his little wife gayly danced 
about the crowing baby before him. They made a pretty group, as 
Agnes leaned over the great arm-chair, and little Harry put forth 
his dimpled hand to stroke his father’s cheek, but there was a little 
peevishness and impatience in the face which the rosy child’s fingers 
passed over so lightly. The invalid was slightly querulous this 
morning. 

“Just the time of all the year that 1 enjoy most,” said Harry, 
•* and to he shut up here nowl it tries a man’s patience — open the 
window, Rose.” 

“ Rose got cold last night, w T hen you had the window open,” said 
Agnes with humility, “ and the baby is not well — it may hurt your- 
self too, Harry.” 

“Nonsense. Rose can sit somewhere else. Open the window.” 

“ Surely, if you wish it, Harry,” saiit Rose promptly. 

The day was bright, but cold, an i the wind blew in, with a sud- 
den gust, through the opened window, tossing poor Rose’s hair 
about her face, and shaking her with a momentary shiver, but say- 
ing nothing, she withdrew quietly to a corner and resumed her 
work. Rose had never ventured all her life to dispute any one of 
Harry’s caprices. 

“One likes to have a glance at the world again,” said Harry, 
raising himself on his pillows. “ Yonder comes the postman, Agnes 
—see, he is holding up a letter— run and get it, Rose; and yonder is 
Rab McGarvie, carrying a peck of brose-meal to somebody, and lit- 
tle Maggie McGillivray clipping at the door. It is pleasant to see 
them all, and this wind, how fresli and wholesome it is. Lift the 
window a little more, Martha —just for a moment.” 


HARRY MUIR.* 


19 


‘ It is very cold, Harry/ pleaded the little wife. 

“ Nonsense,” repeated Harry, ” don’t you think it is quite warm 
for the season, Mr. Charteris? Martha!” 

Martha rose with sudden impatience, threw down her work, and 
rapidly closed the window. She did not speak, but Cuthbert saw 
a strange combination of the strongly marked lines on her forehead,, 
and a*fclose compression of her lips, which did not took very peace- 
able. The act itselt was not very peaceable certainly, but there was 
a suppressed passion in her look and manner, which had a singular 
effect upon the stranger. 

Harry Muir said nothing, but he threw himself back upon the 
pillow, sullen and offended. There was a scared timid expression 
on the face of the young wife, and little Violet glided up behind 
Martha, and laid her hand upon her sister's shoulder in childish 
deprecation. 

Just then Rose entered with the letter. “ It is from Ayr, from 
my uncle,” she said. “ Shall 1 open it, Harry?” 

“ As you please,” said Harry, sulkily. 

She cast a hurried glance round the room, pausing for a moment 
with a searching, inquisitive, painful look, as her eye fell on Mar- 
tha Then she came to her brother’s side, and laid her hand softly 
with a half caress upon his arm. 

“ Shall 1 read what my uncle says, Harry, for everybody’s bene- 
fit? Uncle Sandy always writes to tlie "whole of us, you know.” 

There was no answer. Cuthbert look up his hat, and rose with 
embarrassment. The scene was becoming painful. 

“ You are not going away, Mr. Charteris,” said Agnes, anx- 
iously; “ pray don’t go awaj 7 so soon, when this is your last visit 
too; and I am sure Harry has never had an opportunity before to 
thank you for your kindness, nor indeed any of us, except Martha. 
Martha had to make all our thunks.” 

“ Did you, Martha?” asked Rose. 

Cuthbert turned away his head. He did not wish them to think 
that he saw through those little palpable affectionate artifices of 
theirs to heal the new-made breach. 

*' Martha!” repeated Rose, under her breath. 

And Cuthbert looked stealthily at this passionate face. The rigid 
lines were relaxing slowly; the muscles of the mouth moving and 
trembling; fierce and strong anger melting into inexpressible ten- 
derness and sorrow. Vain anger, bootless yearnings, which might 
spend their strength for ages, like the great sea upon the sand, and 
never change its form. 

“ Mr. Charteris, 1 fear, got but few thanks from me,” said Mar- 
tha, slowly ;“ but Mr, Charteris has seen us since, and Knows that 
to do kindness to Harry is to have the greatest gratitude -we can 
feel.” 

There was another pause, and the stranger could easily perceive 
that, facile as Harry was elsewhere, he liked to reign at home, and 
did not very readily forgive any resistance to his will. He had, in- 
deed been very querulous and unreasonable this morning, and this 
was only the climax of a series of petty selfishnesses which had ex- 
hausted Martha’s powers of long-suffering. 


20 ♦ HARRY MUIR. 

“Shall we fee you soon in Glasgow again?” asked Harry, at 
length, turning onc:e more to Cuthbeit. 

“ In a lew weeks, perhaps; 1 may have some business,” said 
Cutlibert, with embarrassment. ** You will be strong again then, 1 
hope. My uncle commissions me to sav that you must take lull 
time to recover, and not hurry to the ollice too soon.” 

“ Mr. Buchanan is always v< ry kind.” said Agnes. % 

“ Is he?” said Cutlibert, smiling; “scarcely kind enough, 1 am 
di»po>ed to think; but 1 believe it is not the inclination that is de- 
li etive in my uncle. These trammels ot ordinary usage— doing as 
other people do— have a great effect upon men occupied as he is. 
He does nut take time to judge for himself, anil exercise his own 
generosity and j list ice. 

Cutlibert concluded in some haste. Quite consistent as this 
apology was with his own pn vious thoughts, it suddenly occurred 
to him that it was quite irieievant and unnecessary here. 

“ Mr. Buchanan has done perfect justice to Harry, 1 fancy,” said 
Martha Muir, raising her thin figure from its habitual stoop, and 
speaking in a tone of cold hauteur . which, like the passion, revealed 
anew phase of tier character to Cuthbert, who watched her with 
interest; “and as for generosity, Mr. Charteris, yom uncle seems 
by no means deficient where there is any scope for that. 1 see his 
name often in the papers. You judge Mr. Buchanan hardly ” 

Cuthbert comprehended, and was silent. Between the rich man’s 
indiflerence and the poor man’s pride it was difficult to steer; and 
Richard and Alick Buchanan were not more haughtily offended at 
the a< cusation of treating their clerks unfairly than was Harry 
Muir’s sister at the suggestion that bis empl jyer’s generosity could 
reach him. 

“ This poor leg of mine is nearly a month old now,” said Harry, 
“ and except some grave visits from Gilchrist, no one has ever taken 
the trouble to inquire for me. 1 suppose your cousins are more 
pleasantly occupied.” 

“ 1 rather think Dick is afraid,” said Cuthbert. 

He was singularly unrortnnate in his choice of subjects. A little 
red spot began to burn on Harry’s cheex; poor fellow, he wanted 
to be angry. 

“ Afraid!” 

“ 1 mean, they would rather not encounter the ladies till you are 
quite recovered. Persuading you to go with them, you know, bur- 
dens their conscience, because it exposed you to this accident. INot, 
of course, that any one was to blame,” said Cuthbert, hurriedly, 
and with some contusion. 

“ Their conscience is overscrupulous, ” said Harry, looking round 
with a smile of defiance. “ 1 went, with them for my own pleas- 
ure; so far as there is any blame it is entirely mine.” 

Poor Harry! — weak and yielding as the willow in the wind, there 
was no blame to which he was so nervously susceptible as this — no 
accusation which he denied and defied with so mucn anger. 

Cuthbeit turned again to the window. Just before him, in a half- 
built street, which struck off at right angles trom the road to Purt 
Pundas, Maggie McGillivray sat in the cold sunshine on the step of 


HARRY MUIR. 


21 


her mother's door, ,f clipping , ”* with a web of tamboured muslin 
ou her kDee and scissors iu her hand. Maggie, as Violet Muir could 
have testified. was only sixteen, though her “ clipping” bad iielped 
the family income fo* several years, and her own money bad pur- 
chased for her tbe little bright red tartan shawl which just covered 
her stout sliouldtrs, but lei l her arms unincumbered and her bauds 
free. On tbe half paved road before her stood a mill girl, with 
whom work was “ slack,” and who bad spent a tull hour this morn- 
ing elaborating the beautiful plaits and braids of her crisped hair. 
This young lady, with much gesture and many superlatives, was 
describing to t tie busy little worker an iti tier ant show which had 
fixed its temporary quarters at Port Dundas, wherein there was a 
giant and a dwarf, a beautiful lady who danced, and a boy who bad 
pink eyes, and which she berselt was on the way to see; but Maggie 
clipped and shook her bead, unfolding tbe web, to show her tempter 
how much had to be done before one o'clock, when she must lay it 
by, to take up tbe pitcher with her father’s broth, and carry to him 
his wholesome dinner; and when the idler sauntered on, lo seek 
some less scrupulous companion, Maggie returned to her labor with 
such alacrity, that Cuthbert fancied be could almost hear the sound 
of tbe shears, and tbe loud clear lilt of tbe “ Learig,” to which they 
kept time. 

Yet Maggie McGillivray was only a bumble little girl, while 
Harry Muir, in his way, was an accomplished man, Cuthbert 
looked back upon the young man’s fine intelligent face, on which 
the pioud look of defiance still lingered, with a figli of pity and re- 
gret— not so would he have overcome the temptation. 


CHAPTER V. 

She had such a nature, 

You would have thought some fairy, ’ware o’ th’ hour. 

When out of heaven came a young soul, predestined 
For a king’s heir, to make a conqueror of him 
Had, by some strange and wondrous art, diverted 
The new-born spirit from its proper course, 

And hid it in the form of a poor maiden ; 

Leaving the princely weakling in his cradle, 

Shorn of the fate that waited him: the other 
Chafing at its caged limits all its days— 

Old Play. 

A self-willed, proud, ambitious woman, with a strong, clear, 
bold intellect, a passionate temper, and vehement feelings, Martha 
Muir had been born. So much education as she had, tended all to 
reduce her to the due humility of poverty and womanhood, but 
surrounded always by placid natures, who never fully compre- 
hended the stormy spirit with which they had to deal, Martha, 
dwelling alone, and hiding in her own heart the secret aspirations 
which no one round her could have understood, remained as proud, 
as self-willed, and as ambitious as she had been bom. 


* Another feminine craft peculiar to the “ west country,’’ where many young 
girls, of a class inferior tc the workers of embroidery and opening, are employ- 
ed to clip the loose threads from webs of worked muslin. 


HARRY MUIR. 


For hers were not the hopes and fancies common, as people say, 
to youthful women. Advantages of appearance she had never pos- 
sessed, and ihe children who were growing up at her feel absorbed 
all the passionate affections of their grave siRter; but Martha’s 
hopes were visions of unmitigated ambition, eagei to work out for 
itself a future worthy of its own bold spirit — for it was not of 
■windfalls, or happy chances, or of fortune to be bestowed on her by 
another, but of that ladder “ to which the climber upward turns his 
face,’’ that the solitary woman dreamed. 

To raise them— these children — to that indefinite rank and honor 
which exists in the fancy of the young who are poor— to win for 
them exemption for those carking cares amid which her own youth, 
a strong plant, had grown green and flourished. Such hopes were 
strong in the heart oi the passionate girl when people round her 
Ihouglit her only a child; and when darker necessities came — when 
following many little pilgrims, the father and the mother went 
aw r ay, leaving her the head of the sadly diminished family, her 
strong desire, intensified by great giiet, possessed her like a fiery 
tormenting spirit. She was then a woman of only twenty years, 
while Harry was but thirteen; and Manila prayed in an agony for 
means — only means, to let her strong energies forth and labor for 
her children; but th ■ means never came — how could they? and all 
she c< uld do in her passion of ambitious love was to toil day and 
night, for their bread. 

No one of all her friends knew how to deal with Martha — so that 
her impatient soul knew no discipline except the inevitable restraints 
of poverty, and these, if they humble the pride, are but spurs to the 
eager fancy, burning to escape from their power. Through all the 
years of romance the wish and hope to do somewhat, bad filled 
Martha’s mind with visions; but then came those slow, gradual, 
steady years, wherein the light ot common day began to blot out the 
radiant mists of the morning, and as her hopes fell one by one, and 
one by one the months lengthened, filled with the tedious labor 
which gave such scope for thought, bitterness came in like deep 
waters into the fierce heart, which rendered all its strength to that 
might of disappointment, and wrestled with itself like a caged 
eagle. To find that after aspiring to do all, one can do nothing — 
that soaring in fancy into the broad firmament, in the body one 
must condescend to all the meanest and smallest cares of daily life 
— to dream of unknown heights to be attained, and to find instead 
that by the slow toil of every long uninteresting day one must labor 
for daily bread— it is not wonderful that the awaking was bitter; 
and all the more, because in both the dream and the awaking she 
was uncomprehended and alone. 

They all lay dead, these hopes of her strange solitary youth— but 
as they died others rose. This boy, in whom the jmung beautiful 
life rose with a grace which she knew it never had in herself — what 
might he not do? and so she set herself to train him. The old lore 
that is in all hearts, ot the brave and ot the great, the histories of 
Scripture, which live forever ; all that God lias recorded for us of 
his servants’ stout lives, and much that men have written in lesser 
records. The lonely young woman, feeling herself grave and olu 
among her neighbors, poured all her vehement heart into the glow- 


HARRY MUIR. 


23 


!ng intelligence of the boy. She began to think it well that those 
chimeras ot her own had fallen like withered leaves to enrich the 
soil— and in him should be the glorious spring. 

How was it now? The deep red flush which sometimes burned 
on Martha’s cheek, the anger which only one ot so dear regard 
could awaken, and sadder still, the utter heaviness with which her 
heart sunk in the rebound, proclaimed the end of her second harvest. 
The first time she had sowed in proud willfulness— it was meet she 
should reap disappointment: but the second seed -t me had been in 
hope more Christ ianl ike. and with strong crying for the sunshine 
and the dew— the wonderful sunshine and dew of high heaven, 
which had never fallen upon her seed. 

It seemed that her fate had been born with her. The proud and 
passionate temper to be thwarted and crossed at every ve- 

hement ambitious mind, to be disgraced and humbled— and with 
those arrows in her heart, she was now fighting with hereelt a 
greater fight than she had ever hazarded before, subduing herselt to 
herself, and to the Higher One, who thus painfully had brought 
back the rebel soul to His allegiance. It was hard 10 .subdue the 
old passion— the old pride— but she had begun to sanctity her con 
test now, when it had come to the bitterest . , . 

No other trial could have been so hard to her as this; it struck at 
her very life. Misfortunes against which she could struggle would 
have been happy discipline to Martha, but to look on .helplessly 
whfle these elements of ruin were developing m the hie ot her 
brother; to stand by and see him fall lower and lower into the pool 
and petty sins which she despised-to watch the slow coming of 
displace and wretchedness which she could not lift a linger to avert 
—who can wonder that the proud spirit was chated into Pistons of 
fierce anger sometimes, and sometimes into very despair; but Mar- 
tha never spoke ot what she suftered-she only said Poor Harry ! 

“ Shall I read my uncle’s letter now? asked Rose, when Cuth- 

° e ^ Surelv°”iaid Harry, whom some slight incident had restored 
to perfect” good humor. “ Surely, Rosie, let us hear what the old 
man says.” 

“ 1 write this to let you know that 1 am quite well,” read Rose, 
- though a little troubled with the rheumatism in my right arm 
which always comes on about the turn of the year, as you will a 1 
mind- and I am verv sorry to hear of Harry s accident; but the e 
?s less matter tor lamentation, it being gotten m a S^od way,^s I 
have no doubt Martha will mind. The town °r ler . Sandy Proud- 
foot broke his leg at Hogmanay, and it's never mended yet but I 
can not see what better the daidling body had to expect, it being a 
thing weJl known that when the accident was gotten, he was as he 
should not have been, which is a great comiort in respect of Harry. 
1 hope all the rest ot you are well and doing well, and desire to see 
some of you at Ayr as soon as ever it can be made convenient. It 
Violet is Inclined to be delicate, send her out to me for a change^ 
The guard ot the coach would take good care of her, and 1 will pay 
her passage myselt. 1 hope she is minding her lessons and learning 
to heip the rest with the opening, and that Rose is eident, as the 


HARRY MUIR. 


24 

cottar says, and minds lier duty duly, and that Harry is steady and 
’grees with lus wife. As for Martha, seeing she knows what is 
right, belter than 1 can tell her, 1 have nothing to say, but that I 
hope she keeps up to the mark, which she knows, and has her own 
judgment in her favor -of which, it she is sure, 1 know she will be 
feared For no other in the world. And so 1 remain, my dear bairns* 
your affectionate uncle, 

“Alexander Muir.” 

“ What do you say, Agnes,” said Harry, “ do we agree?” 

The little wife smiled. “ When you behave yourselCHarry,” she- 
said, laying her child in the ciadle. 

“ If we could manage it.” said Martha, “ when Harry is able to 
walk, Agnes, 1 think you should go down together and see my 
uncle. You have never been in Ayr.” 

Agnes looked ud brightly. “And I should like so well to go; 
and it would do Harry so much good. But then, Martha, how can 
we afford it?” 

Harry winced visibly. Smne debts of his own, recklessly and 
foolishly incurred, had made the long-projected journey to Ayr im- 
practicable a year ago; the fifteen pounds could do so little more 
than provide for the bare wants of the quarter; and yet again there 
were other debts waiting for the next payment of salary. Poor 
Harry ! 

“ 1 have been thinking,” said Martha, quietly; “ 1 see liow we 
can manage, Agnes; we shall only work the more busily. Rose and 
1, while you are away, and Harry will be the better of it. I see how 
we can do it. It will do Harry good to see my uncle and the little 
quiet house again.” 

Harry felt that there was meaning in her voice. To dwell again 
under the humble roof where all her hones for his young life had 
risen; where she had nursed and tended tne dawning mind within 
him, aud labored to lift his eyes, and leach him to lock upward 
bravely, like a young eagle to the sun. Alas, poor Harry! F< r this 
revival of the unstained hopes of youth, Martha was willing to toil 
all the harder at her tedious unceasing toil; and he felt, almost for 
the fiist time, how hopeless these hopes were. How different were 
his expectations and hers. 

“ It is a shame,” he said, abruptly. “ for a rich man like Buchan- 
an to keep us down so. We require a little relaxation, a little 
ease, as well as them; and I should like to know how it is possible 
we can get it on sixty pounds a year?” 

“Peter McGillivray lias only fourteen shillings a week,” said 
Rose. 

“And what then?” 

“He keeps a family on it, Harry; at least his wife does; but 
then she very thrifty. ’ 

“ Thiifty! nonsense, is not Agnes thrifty too? Y"ou are a fool- 
ish girl, Rose,” said her brother; “ you think a few shillings is a 
great fortune. There, now, a pound or two would take us com 
fort ably down to my uncle’s; but how can we spare that off the 
pittance they give me?” 

Yet Harry remembered that his own private expenses — the little 




HARRY MUIR. 


25 


debts of which his wife and sister knew nothing— amounted to more 
than that needful pound or two, and the remembrance brought a 
flush to his face ami made him angry. 

“ There is a meanness attends this mercantile wealth, he ex- 
claimed hastily; “a want of thought and consideration of others 
What are we clerks but the stuff these masters of ours are made of? 
and yet how they keep us down.”. 

“ They were themselves kept down, and overcame it, said 

\v ell it is not a very noble art, the art of making money,” said 
Harry w’ith assumed carelessness. “ Dick Buchanan and the rest 
of them are shallow fellows in spite of it all. And their, father - 
he has made a fortune— hut the honest man is no genius. 

“ But it is a noble art to refuse to be kept down, said the ambi- 
tious Martha, with a kindling of her eye. ‘‘1 am ashamed to 
thimc that Mr. Buchanan or any other ordinary person, can keep 
down my brother; and he can not. Harry. You have less perhaps 
ihan you ought to have now, but win more; that is your letuge. 
And don't let us throw the responsibility on other people. We 

have only io answer tor ourselves.” , 

“ Well, Maltha.” said Harry, looking up, we have not much 
of the mammon of unrighteousness to answer for 1 will te l my 
uncle you have grown chaiitable; that is, if it be at all possible to 

ge ‘‘ Whatdo you think, Martha?” said Agnes, with some solicitude 

in her face. . , , r 

“ You must go; that is all,” said Martha. ai . . 

The little wife was by no means self-opinionated, bhe had a 
great reverence for, and faith in, the decrees of Martha, and knew 
that what her grave sister lesolved would be accomplished some 

wav ” she returned pleasantly to the cradle. . 

“And 1 don’t want to go, Martha,” whispered little Violet, de- 
siring to have her sacrifice appreciated. “My uncle will give the 
money to Agues, and 1 will stay at home and help you to open. 

“ But you would like to go, Lettie?” said Rose. 

“ No; I would rather stay at home with Martha and you. I 
think Martha,” whispered Violet again, “that it will be fine to be 
our lane iust for a wee while— when Agnes is with Harry. 

In the eldei mind there was a response to the child s thought— 
To know that Harry was sate, with the good uncle, and the anxious 



before them. There was something in the thought which gave 
Martha relief, and yet oppressed her with a heavier sadness; but 
Agnes was already gay in anticipation, and eagerly discussing wliat 
she should take of her little wardrobe, and how many frocks for 
babv Harry— for Agnes was still only a girl, and the unusual pleasure 
filled her with wholesome natural delight— a good and happy con- 
tagion which soon spread itself in softened degrees over all the iest. 



26 


HARRY MUIR. 


CHAPTER VI. 

He left me, wi’ his deein’ breath, 

A dwelling-house, and a’ that. 

Old Song. 

“I want a nexl of kin, Charteris,” said an Edinburgh W. S , 
entering the little office where Cuthbert sat, solemnly considering 
the morning’s paper, opposite an elbow-chair, which had very sel- 
dom been honored by the presence of a client. “ I want a next of 
kin, and 1 can’t tell where to find him.” 

The speaker was a young man about Cuthbert ’s own age, who 
like himself had newly begun to encounter on his own behalf the 
cares and responsibilities of business. They had come together 
through the training of the high school and college, and now were 
great friends and allies, furthering each other’s progress by all 
means in their power. 

44 Advertise,” said the laconic Cuthbert, from behind the folds of 
his newspaper. 

‘‘Oh, oracle!” answered Mr.- David Lindsay, throwing down a 
black crumpled “ Times,” which struck upon the fair broad-sheet 
of the ‘‘The Scotsman,” and compelled the reader’s attention, 
” And suppose 1 have advertised, and failed — what then?” 

*‘ It’s a cold day, Davie,” responded the learned advocate. 44 Sit 
down, Lord Lion, and tell me all about it.” 

“ 1 say, Cuthbert, there’s a story,” said the W. S., mysteriously. 

Cuthbert stiried the fire, and prepared to listen 

“ Up near the links of Forth, there is a gray old house called 
Allenders,” said Lindsay, with some importance, ‘‘and in the 
house there dwells a family, as your penetration will guess— or 
rather, dwelt a family — for they are now extinguished — Allenders 
of Allenders— and between four and five hundred a-year; now that’s 
what I want a man for, Cuthbert.” 

‘‘Between four and five hundred a-year,” repeated Cuthbert 
gravely. 44 1 would take it myself, to oblige you, Davie.” 

‘‘ Thants you— 1 could get lots,” said the "representative of the 
poet Kiug-at-Arms. “ But the right man, Charteris — by the bye, 1 
should say the right woman — the right two women— where to lay my 
hands on them — ?” 

“So the heir is extant after all,” said Cuthbert; ‘‘you know 
that, do you?” 

“ Wait a little, and I’ll tell you what 1 know. They have always 
been a highly respectable family, these Allenders, mind, and you 
know what that means; comfortable, slow, common sense folK, with 
no hair- brained sentimental traces about them. Well! the last 
father of them had seven sons — there was no appearance of a lack 
of heirs then — and one of the sons, the third or fourth, 1 think, t< ok 
it into his head to be a — what is your newest philosophical name 
for it — the Allenders said a sentimental fool —which means, you. 
know, that he married somebody.” 


HARRY MUIR. 




“ 1 beg to assure you that there is no sort of philosophy in that 
achievement, Lion,” said Cuthbeit. . 

‘ Don’t interrupt me, Charteris— why, man, a romantic episode 
in the history ot a dull family is a treasure. This son— his name 
was John — everybody’s name is John — married some poor girl or 
other in Stirling; and thereupon followed a regular tragic disown- 
ing of the refractory son. The good people were startle:! out of 
their propriety; never an Allenders had been known before to do 
anything out ot the ordinary jog-trot, and the example of his daring 
aruused his father and his brethren. They cast him out- they 
banished him from the paternal countenance, and from all hope of 
ever inheriting the paternal acres, and so left him to seek lus fort- 
une as he best could. That was seventy years ago.” . 

“ Seventy years! why, the man must be dead, said Charteris. 

“ Very possibly. It does not concern me, that,” said Lindsay. 

“ Well, Charieris, this sentimental John got some sort of situation 
in Stirling, and was by no means annihilated by the family ban. 
He throve and multiplied for a few years — then his wife died sud- 
denly leaving him with two daughters, and then he disappeared. 

“Where he went to, there is not the least clew. The man was 
half mad with grief, I suppose. It was said he was going to Lpg- 
land-and it was said he was going to America. It seems quite im- 
possible to discover— every trace ot him is gone. And now all the 
seven sons are exhausted; alter all, it must be best to be stagnant, 
Charteris — for see you, whenever this romance stepped in among 
the decent people, what a blight it brought upon them. Jour of 
them died unmarried-other two had children who have grown old 
and died during the lingering life-time of the last proprietor He 
was a childless widower — anil now the old man has gone too, and 

where am I to get those heirs?” . 

“ Did he know nothing ot them? said Cutlibert. 

“Nothing; he died very old— upward of ninety— and his senses 
fai’ed him; but liis memory seems to have turned with a strange 
kind of affection to this poor sentimental lost John. There are 
some far away cousins who would claim as heirs, but the old laird 
] e f t a will ordaining that search should be first made for the chil- 
dren of John Allenders-childreu! they will noi he quite youthful 
now !” 

“ Aud there is no trace?” said Cutlibert. 

“ None but a rather fantastic one,” said Lindsay, smiling. The 
favorite female name of the Allenders’ family was Violet-old 
Allenders thought it ceitaiu that one of those children would be 
called Violet— and their mother s name was Rose. Whats the 

Strange i” said Cutlibert, looking up, with a start. “ Why, I 
met a famiiy in Glasgow, last month, in which there were both 

thesemames^’ r e ? what>s lheir name? who are they?” said Lindsay 

ea “ e Their name is Muir-they are rather a noticeable family in 
manv respects,” said Cutlibert, with a little hesitation; but so far 
as pecuniary matters go, very humble people. Could it be Rose 
and Violet— there can be no mistaae about the names. 1 11 tell 


HARRY MUIR.' 


28 

you what, Lindsay, I’ll go through, myself, to the west, and find 
it out.’' 

“ Mauy thanks. I had no idea you took so much interest in 
these professional investigations,.” said Lindsay, with some cuiios- 
ity, *‘ I think it is more in my department than yours, Cuthberi,.” 

“ You don’t know them, Davie— you’re an alien and a foreigner, 
and an east country man —whereas my moiher is a Buchanan! I 
am free of the city, Lion, and then, 1 know the Muirs.” 

“ Well, Cuthbert, you know your own secrets, 1 suppose,” said 
Lindsay, laughing, “ and whether all this is pure professional zeal, 
or no, L won’t inquire; but as for your rubbbh about east country- 
men, you don’t mean me to believe that, you know. Of course, if 
you are acquainted with the family, that is a great matter. But 
mind, be cautious!” 

‘‘Look at ‘The Scotsman,’ Davie,” said Cuthbert, “and keep 
silence, while 1 read your advertisement. There now, be quiet.” 

Two stor-es up in the honorable locality of York Place, lived 
Cuthbt-rt’s mother. They were not very rich, certainly, but the old 
ladv had a sufficient ponion of the means of comfort, to prove her 
a Buchanan. She was a little, brisk, active woman, under whose 
management everything became plentiful. It was rot an economi- 
cal propensity, hut, refined and somewhat elegant though Mrs. 
Charters’ own individual tastes were, it was an indispensable thing 
with her that there should be “ routh ” in her house. So there were 
dependants hanging about her door at all times, and stores of bread 
and broken meat dispensed to all comers. Mrs. Charier is had un- 
limited faith in her two neat, blooming, sister servants. She thought 
they could discriminate the line between plenty and waste, almost 
as distinctly as she did Herself— yet when Cuthbert returned home 
that day be found his mother delivering a shoit lively lecture on the 
subjict— a lecture such as was rather a habit of hers— to the elder 
of the two trusted confidential maids. 

” You see, Lizzie, my woman, to lay the moulins out of Ihe 
bread basket on Ihe window-sill for the sparrows is very kindly and 
wiselike — a thing that pleases me— but tocr.umble down one side of 
the good loaf that we’re using ourselves, is waste. You see the 
difference. It might have been given to some poor body.” 

" Yes, mem,” said Lizzie, demurely, ** and so 1 did. 1 gi’ed the 
ither half o’ the loaf to Marget Lowrie.” 

Mrs. Charteris looked grave for a moment. ‘‘We were using it 
ourselves, Lizzie; but to be sure, in a house where there's plenty, 
there should aye be the portion for folk that have more need, and 
as long as its lawfully used, Lizzib, 1 never find fault, but to waste 
is a great sin. Now, you’ll mind that, and take the moulins after 
this tor the sparrows.” 

‘‘ It’s Mr. Cuthbert, mem,” said Jess, the younger sister of the 
two, returning from the door, and the little active old lady rustled 
away in her black silk gown to her parlor, to see what had brought 
home her son at so unusual an hour. 

The parlor or drawing-room, for it might be called either, was a 
handsome room, though it was on the second story, and its very 
comfortable furniture had an air of older fashion than the present 
time, which suited very gracefully with the age of its mistress. 


HARRY MUIR. 


29 


Near one of its large windows stood an antique spider-legged table, 
bearing a work-box of somewhat elaborate manufacture, an open, 
book, with Mrs. Charteris’ silver thimble lying on it for a mark, 
and Mrs. Charteris’ work by its side — while within reach of these 
stood an easy-chair and a footstool. The spring was biiglilcning 
rapidly, and Mrs. Charteris’ chair stood always in this window, 
when the weather perrniited her to leave the fireside — tor here, as 
3he plied her sewing, or glanced up from her bonk, she could ob- 
serve the passengers in the street below, and watch for Cuthbeit as 
he came home trora his little office. Cutlibert had a slight look ot 
excitement to day, his mother thought, as she took off her spec- 
tacles. and looked at him with her own kindly unassisted eyes. Mrs. 
Cliarteiis fancied her son had perhaps got a brief. 

“ Well, Cuthbert, my man, what brings you home so soon?” said 
Mrs. Charteris, sitting down in her chair, and drawing in her foot- 
stool. 

44 1 think 1 will go through to Glasgow to-morrow, mother,” said 
Cuthbert hastily. 

The old lady looked up with her glasses on. There was certainly 
an unusual flush and a happy embarrassed smile upon the face of 
her good son. 

‘‘Tire laddie’s possessed!” said Mrs. Chatteris, 44 What would 
you do in Glasgow again so soon? It is not a month since you came 
home, Cuthbert. ” 

“ Neither it is, mother,” said the advocate, “ hut 1 liaye got some 
business in hand— a mystery, mother, to exercise my legal judg- 
ment on.” 

Mrs. Charteris was interested. 44 Ay, what’s that?” 

There was a good deal of hesitation about the learned gentleman 
— it was evident there wa3 no fee in this case. 

41 1 told you about that young man, mother — that family of 
Muirs.” 

The old lady looked up quickly. She was a good deal intetested 
in this family of Muirs, partly because her sou had spoken much 
of them, and s' ill more because he seemed so very willing to return 
to the subject. 44 What about them, Cuthbert?” 

44 I had Davie Lindsay with me to-day,” said Cuthbert, lifting up 
and turning over the pages of his mother’s hook. 44 He is very 
anxious to trace out the heirs of a small old estate near Stilling, 
and I’ve a notion thes-e Muirs are the people he wants.” 

Mrs. Charteris dropped her work on her knee, and looked tip with 
much interest. 

44 The lost heir had two daughters called Rose and Violet —rather 
a singular conjunction Now the two younger Muirs bear these 
names — a strange coincidence, if it is nothing else; and it one could 
help such a larnily- I told you how much they interested me, 

mother.” , , 

44 Yes,” said the old lady; 44 Violet — that was the little girl — 1 
heard you mention her— but which of them is Rose?” 

Mi. Cuthbert Cliarteiis looked a little foolish, and withdrew into 
the shadow of the curtain, which fortunately was green, and 
neutralized the slight unusual flush upon his face. 44 One forgets 
these girls’ names,” he said, with a short laugh, 44 though this is 


30 


HARRY MUIR. 


rather a pretty one. The elder one is Martha, you know, mother — 
a grave enough name to make up tor the romance ot the other two 
— the intermediate young lady is Rose.” 

“ How old is she, Cuthbert?” interrogated his mother. 

“I really am no judge— 1 could hardly guess — quite young 
though,” said Cutnbert hurriedly, “ but the similiarity ot names is 
very striking, and if 1 could trace out a relationship, 1 should be 
exceedingly pleased, mother; besides that, one is bound, as a matter 
of duty, to assist in proving a birthright in any circumstances— and 
this young man will never do in business, it is clear — whereas he 
might make a capital country gentleman.” 

Mrs. Charleris was a little prejudiced. She shook her head: *' It 
is not so easy to make a gentleman, Cuthbert; the transition from 
sixty pounds a year to five liundied, though it must be very com- 
fortable, no doubt, will never accomplish that.” 

” Harry Muir, mother,” said Cuthbert, “is nnt a wise man by 
any means— at five-aud-twenty, I scarcely think I was very wise 
myself— but Harry Muir, with bis sixty pounds, is a gentleman 
already. 1 am afraid Dick Buchanan would suffer very greatly, if 
you saw them together and compared the two.” 

“ Ritchie Buchanan is your cousin, Cuthbert,” said the old lady, 
warmly. He is called after my father, who was a gentleman, 
though ho was not so rich as his son. r lo be sure these laddies were 
very loud the last time 1 saw them, and I believe Ritchie had a ring, 
arid no glove upon his hand — but still, Cuthbert, you must not be 
an ill bird.” \ 

“ Well, we shall see,” said Cuthbert, smiling. “ Wait till 1 show 
you Harry Muir, mother — no discredit to Dick, or any ot them — 
but my uncie’s clerk is a very different person; poor fellow! — if 
he only had half as much prudence as the youngest of them, it 
would be better for him. He is of that class who, people say, are 
nobody’s enemies but their own.” 

“ And that is just tiie most hopeless class of all, Cuthbert.” said 
Mrs. Charteris; ” you may cure a bad man that has pith— you may 
turn a vessel that is ballasted and steady, into another course — but 
for your bits of gay pleasure-boats that float with the stream — alack 
*md woe is me! it is a hopeless work, Cuthbert; you never tried 
your hand at anything so vain.” 

‘* That is the sister’s work, not mine, mother,” said Cuthbert, 
** and 1 can believe it is not a very promising one — but in the mean- 
time. I must try' - and lay my hr nils upon the clew which will con- 
duct Davie Lindsay to his end, and give him an heir to Allenders. 
Of course, 1 will not speak ot it to the family, till 1 have ascertained 
something more about these names— but I think the result is very 
likely to be what 1 heartily wish it may. ’ 

“ 1 will wager you a silver crown, Culhbert.” said Mrs. Cbar- 
teris, “ that the bairn is called after old Mrs. Violet Primrose of 
Govan, and that Mrs. Hervey of Monkland, is the name-mother of 
the elder one; and to make it the more appropriate, to-morrow is 
the first of April, and Davie Lindsays has sent you on a gouk’s errand, 
for a credulous callant as you are; now mind, 1 told you.” 

“ Very well, mother, we shall see,” responded Cuthbeit. 





CHAPTER VII. 

He has a secret motive in Ms search, 
Honest, yet would he not that all the world 
Saw full into his heart:— a right good heart- 
Devising nothing evil, yet aware 
Of certain silent secrets of its own. 


Old Play. 


It was not without a little embarrassment that Cuthbert presented 
himself next day at the office of his uncle. It was the day before 
the dispatch of one of the mails, and everybody in the office was 
very busy. Round the d sk of }Ir. Gilchiist, the cashier, who had 
the capital business head, and the two hundred yearly pounds, the 
snuft lay in little heaps, and all the clerks of meaner degree were 
working furiously, with scarcely time to interchange, no tv and then, 
the usual badinage of the counting-house; while, in Mr. Buchanan s 
room, Richard sat writing letters beside his father. 

“Better get away out of town, Cuthbert,” said the merchant, 
“ we shall be late to-night; but your aunt and Clemie are at home, 
and ate always glad to see you, you know, whereas we shall only 
bore you, if you wait for us. 1 think you had better go down to 
Green bank at once.” . . , . 

“ Very well, uncle,” said Cuthbert. He was quite resigned ta 
postpone his enjoyment of their company for a few hours. “1 
have some business to do, but I shall get home before you, I think. 

“1 say, Cut libei t,” said Richard in an aside, “ why don't you 
ask for Harry Muir? I believe you’ve been there already.” 

** Then you believe nonsense, Dick,” said Cuthbert, with a little 

heat. “ How is he, poor fellow?” 

“ He’s gone down to Ayr. Oh, lie’s recovering fast, said 
Richard. “ These women made it worse than it was, you know, 
with their lamentations. 1 suppose you’re going to call, Cuth- 

bert?” . ...... 

“ l am going to look after a case which my friend Lindsay is en- 
gaged in,” said Cuthbert, with some dignity. “ 1 must do that be- 
fore I make any calls. There now, that will do— you are sure to be 
late with your letters, Dick.” , _ , ~ . 

“I should not wonder,” mused Dick Buchanan, as Cuthbert 
made his escape, “if his business was in Port Dundas after all.” 
And the curious young merchant endeavored to discover, through 
the opaque window, which course bis cousrin took; but the endeavor 
was quite unsuccessful. The dim yellow pane preserved Cuthbeit s 

SeCFe t 

It was past mid-day when Cuthbert reached the busy road to Port 
Dundas. It was, as usual, noisy and loud, and crowded with echo- 
ing carts on its causeway, and streams of mill-girls pouring along 
ils° pavement, returning to the factories after dinner. Little stout, 
round forms -faces sometimes sallow, but by no means unhealthy 
— hair dressed with extreme regard to the fashion, and always ex- 
cellently brushed, and in the finest order— made these passengers. 



32 


HARRY MUIR. 


in (heir colored woolen petticoats and bright, short gowns, a very 
comely part of the street population. Very true, most of them 
planted broad, sturdy, bare feet up >n the dusty pavement; but tbe 
free loud mirth, no less than the comfortable habiliments, showed 
them quite removed from the depressing effects of extreme poverty 
—as indeed they were. 

And opposite Harry Muir’s house, in the little half finished street, 
Maggie McGillivray still sat clipping, with her brisk scissors in her 
hand, sending tier loud clear voice into the den like an ano — and 
still another branch of the Glasgow feminine industry under 

the amused observation of Outlibert before he reached the little 
parlor. 

Miss Aggie Rodger, with her large shoulders bursting from under 
the little woolen shawl, and a great rent in the skirt of the faded 
large patterned cotton gown, sat on the highest step of thestaii, 
holding in her hand a very dingy piece of embroidered muslin, 
which slie was jerking about with won ierful rapidity as she 

opened ” it. Miss Aggie, like the humbler clipper, was lightening 
her task with the solace of song; but, instead of tne clear flowing 
canty *‘ Learig,” Miss Aggie, with great demonstration, was utter- 
ing tbe excellences of the Rose of Allandale. Both the natural 
voices were tolerably good; but Uuthbert thought he preferred 
Maggie McGillivray’s. 

In the little “ green,” to which the paved passage from the street 
directly led, Miss Rodger, the elder sister, was laying out the collars 
and caps of the family to bleach. Miss Rodger was, in her way, a 
very proud person, and bad a severe careworn face, which, six or 
seven years ago, bad been pretty. From the green, Outlibert heard 
her addres>ing her sister: 

“ Aggie, baud your tongue. Folk would think to see ye that } r ou 
kent na better than tbe like of that lassie McGillivray. They’ll 
hear ye on the street.” * 

‘‘Ye can shut to the door, then, if ye’re so proud,” responded 
Miss Aggie, drawing out the long quavers of her song with un- 
abated zeal. 

Miss Jeanie, the prim intermediate sister, looked out from the 
kitchen window, and interrupted the dialogue in a vehement whis- 
per Aggie, will ye come out of that, and no let yoursel be seen, 
such a like sielit as ye are? do ye no see the gentleman?” 

Miss Aggie looked up — saw Cuthbe’d standing below— and, snatch- 
ing up the torn skirt of her gown in her hand, fled precipitately, 
leaving betiind her a considerable-sized dilapidated slipper, trodden 
down at the heel, which had escaped from her toot in tier flight. 

“ I’ve lost yin o’ my bauchals. Throw it into us, wr man, Jean 
— what will the strange man think?” cried Miss Aggie, disconso- 
lately, as sue reached the safe refuge of the kitchen. 

Miss Jeanie was dressed — tor this was the day on which they 
carried home their finished work to the warehouse which supplied 
them. Miss Jeanie was very ptim, and had a little mouth, which 
she showed her appreciation ot, as the one excellent feature in a 
tolerable face, by-drawing her lips together, and making them 
round. She was magnificently at rayed in a purple silk gown, hound 
round the waist with a silken cord, from which hung a superb pair 


HARRY MUIR. 


aa 


of tassels. Thife dress was by far the grandest article of apparel in 
the house; and with great awe and veneration, Violet Muir had just 
intimated to her sisters, that Miss Jeanie was going to the ware- 
house, and that she had on her Adelaide silk gown. Adroitly ex- 
tending the skirt of this robe of state to cover the unlucky 
“ bauchal ” of Miss Aggie, Miss Jeanie primly stood by the open 
door, admitting the visitor, and Cuthbert entered without making 
any further acquaintance with the family. 

The same universal feminine work reappeared in the parlor, 
where Martha sat by the window in her usual place, busy with her 
usual occupation, while ltose, seated by the table, and occasionally 
pausing to glance down upon an open book which lay before her, 
listened with a smile, half of pleasure, half of amusement, as Vio- 
let, standing by her side, with a glow upon her little pale face, 
poured forth page after page of the Bridal of Triermain. Martha, 
too, raised her eyes now and then, with a smile of playful love in 
them — for little Lettie’s low-voiced intense utterance, aDd enthusi- 
asm, refreshed and pleased the heart which knew so many harder 
sorrows than the evils of romance. Rose w r as Violet’s governess; 
in an evil hour the young teacher had bidden her pupil choose any 
poetry she liked for her task, and learn as much of it as pleased 
her. Now Violet did at that time particularly affect the minstrelsy 
of Sir Walter, and the result was, that already one canto of Trier- 
main had been accomplished, and another, and another, remained 
to say. 

Out of doors in the sunshine, Maggie McGillivray sung the 
4 ‘ Learig,” and with a gay flourish of her shears accompanied the 
swell of the “ owerword,” as she ended every verse.' At the win- 
dov/in the kitchen. Miss Aggie Rodger sat in a heap upon the table, 
and stayed her needle in mid course, while she accomplished the 
Ro-o-se of A-ah-allandale; and within here ihe little form of Violet 
expanded, and her small face glowed, as her story progressed; while 
Rose smiled and worked, and glanced at the book; and Martha, 
with fresh and genuine pleasure, listened and looked on. After all, 
the gift of song is a lair gift to this laborious world. There was 
nothing very grand or elevated in either the ballads or the fable, yet 
enough to stir the heart, and keep the busy hands trom weariness 
—and to do that, is to do w T ell and merit a Hearty blessing of the 
world. 

Cuthbert was loath to disturb this pretty home scene, as he did at 
his entrance; but notwithstanding, Cuthbert vvas very well satisfied 
with the bright surprise and shy pleasure, which one at least of the 
little group displayed, and took his place among ihem like an old 
friend. Violet’s copy-book lay open on the table; and Violet made 
very bad pot-hooks indeed, and bated, the copy intensely, though 
she liked the poetry. The copy linesset for her were not very beau- 
tiful either, though they were written in a good, sensible, female 
hand, which had some individuality in it, and was not of the fasn- 
ionable style. Such copy lines! stray lines out of books, as diverse 
and miscellaneous as could be collected, differing most widely from 
those sublime, severe, abstiact propositions, which in common cases 
introduce the youthful student to wisdom and half-text. Cuthbert 
could not help a visible smile as he glanced ovsr them. 
a 


34 


HARRY MUIR. 


“ 1 have interrupted my little friend’s lesson,” said Charteris, as 
he laid down the book. 

Rose was shy ot him. She did not answer. 

“ Violet has a great appetite for verse,” said Martha; “ we shali 
have all the rest of it at night.” 

“ rn'ermain.” Cuthbert was a little surprised that the child 
should be so far advanced — innocent Cuthbert! he did not know 
what a host of books, ot all kinds and classes, the tittle Violet had 
devoured already. 

“ How is Mr. Muir?” asked Cuthbert. “ 1 heard at the office he 
was uot at home, and 1 was very glad to find that he was able for 
traveling. Have yon heard from him? How is he?” 

“ He is getting strong rapidly, Agnes writes,” said Martha, 

“ They are with my uncle in Ayr. We were brought up there, all 
of us, and so we say Harry has gone home. 1 hope it will strengthen 
him— every way,” she added, with a suppressed sigh. 

‘‘And so you like Sir Walter, YioJet,” said Cuthbert; “come 
and tell me what you have read besides Triermain.” 

Violet came shyly to his side, and drooped her head, and answered 
with basiifulness, ‘ 1 have read them a’.” 

“ Read them all! not quite, 1 think — how many bpoks have you 
read, altogether?” said the puzzled Cuthbert. 

Violet looked up with mingled astonishment and pity, and opened 
her ryes wide. She, who had already begun to look at advertise- 
ments of books, and to tease Mr. Syme, the librarian in the Cow- 
caddens, about new publications, which he had never heard of, and 
which in the ordinary course, would not reach him these hundred 
years — she to he asked how many books she had read! Violet was 
amazed at the want of apprehension, which such a question dis- 
played. 

“ I have read a great heap — and I can say the Lord of the Isles, 
by heart, and bits ot the Lady of the Lake.” 

Cuthbert’s ignorance had given Violet a little courage; hut as she 
met his eye, her head drooped again, and she relapsed into her 
former shyness. 

“ And how old are you, Violet?” 

“ I shall be eleven nex! May.” Violet had already had very grave 
thoughts on this subject of her age. It seemed a stupendous thing 
to pass that tenth mile-stone. 

“ Violet — where did you get that pretty name of yours,” said 
Cuthbert. drawing his hand over her small dark head. 

“ It was my mother’s name,” said the little girl reverently. 

The conversation came to a sudden pause. Conscious that he had ' 
a motive in asking those seeming simple questions. Cuthbert felt 
confused, and could not go on— so he turned to the copy-book. 

“ Have you -written all this yomself, Violet?” 

He had gone back to the beginning, and there certainly was to be 
traced the formation of a different’ hand from Violet’s— the re- 
spectable, womanly writing which had placed those odd copy lines 
on the later pages; he traced it as it improved, througn a good many 
different steps of progress, and at the end found a clear, good-look- 
ing signature, proclaiming it to be the work of Rose A. Muir. 


HARRY MUIR. 


35 


“ Rose A. Muir,” lie repeated it unawares aloud. 

The bearer of the name started with a slight blush. Martha 
glanced at him with grave sciutiny— and little Violet, looking ad- 
miringly at her wister’s handwritiug, explained, “ Rose was called 
•after my grandmother.” 

“ R is not a common name,” said Cuthbert. growing embarrassed 
under the grave eye of Martha. “ May 1 ask. Miss Rose, what is 
represented by this A.” 

“ R " ill be Anne or Alice, or some stupid woman’s name,” he 
said to himself, while his heart beat a little quicker. 

”1 was called after my grandmother, Mr. Charteris, as Lettie 
says,” said Rose, shyly. “It is Rose Allen ders— that was her 
name.” 

The young man starleri visibly. He had no idea of falling on 
anything so clear as this; but Martha looked at him with sudden 
curiosity, and he felt himself compelled to make some explanation. 

” It is by no means a usual name. Miss Muir,” said Cuthbert, 
turning to the elder sister “ 1 know something. 1 am slightly ac- 
quainted with a family called Allenders. Did this lady— your 
grandmother, Miss Rose— come from the east country?” 

“ 1 can not tell, indeed,” said Rose. “ She died very long ago — 
before any of us were born.” 

“ 1 think they came trom London,” said Martha; “ I have heard 
my uncle say so— there were two sisters of them; and their father 
died in Ayr. Mrs. Calder, in the old town, was vei} r kind to the 
orphans, and took them in: and there the younger sister — her name 
was Violet— died; and my grandmother married Mrs. Calder’s son. 
1 have heard she died young too, and called her only child, who 
was bur mother, after her Ijitle sister. Il is a sad story altogether; 
but we beard my uncle speak of it often; and I remember liow 
many of the old people in Ayr recollected Rose Allendr rs ” 

“ My mother’s name was Vioiet Calder,” said Lettie, “ but I am 
only plain Violet. She did not call me after all her name; but 
Rose has got two names because she’s after my grandmother.” 

“ 1 am going further west,” said Cuthbert. ”1 shall be in Ayr 
for a day or two, 1 believe. 1 think 1 must ask you to introduce 
me to your uncle, Miss Muir.” 

“ He will be glad to see you,” said Martha, quietly. “ But if you 
go now', you will find Hurry established there. Give Mr. Charteris 
my uncle’s address. Rose— but indeed you hardly need that, for 
every one knows my uncle.” 

But Cuthbert had not the least desire to meet Harry in Ayr. So 
he was careful to excuse himself, and suddenly discovered that he 
could not be able to make acquaintance wrtli Alexander Muir, the 
uncle, for a full fortnight, by which time it was ceitain that Harry 
must have returned. 



36 


HARRY MUIR. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

* 

“ There is all hope in thee, sweet Spring, sweet Spring! 

Dull voices, speaking of thee, unawares, 

Bewray themselves to sing. 

For every name thou hast such music bears; 

Whether ’tis March, when all the winds are gay — 

Or April, girlish in her wayward way — 

Or sweetest May.” 

Day by day passed, of Harry Muir’s last bright week at Ayr — 
passe il no less happily to the three sisters, than to hiraselt and his 
little wife— and at last, fresh, healthful, and in high spirits, the 
youthful couple and their baby returned home. 

To walk to the coach-office to meet them, was of itself a jubilee 
for the home-dwellers, and Mrs. Rodger herself held the door open 
for them, in stately welcome. Mrs. Rodger was a tall old woman, 
gaunt and poveity-stiicken, in her dingy widow’s cap, and black 
cotton gown; but Mrs. Rodger had been “ genteel ” once, and never 
forgot it. She extended one of her long arms, and gave Harry’s 
hand a swing, as he slopped to gieet her. “ 1 was just telling our 
weans,” said Mrs. Rodger, “ that the house wasna like itself, want- 
ing you — and 1 hope you find your leg strong, Mr. Muir; bless e, 
how the wee boy’s grown! 1 would scarce have kent him; bring him 
ben, Violet, and let the weans get a look o’ him. What a zize he’s 
turned!” 

Miss Aggie, the youngest of the aforesaid weans, plunged out of 
the kitchen and seized ihe baby with loud expressions of admira- 
tion. The little wife was easily flattered by praise of that blue-eyed 
boy of hers, and was by no means unwilling to accompan) r him her- 
self, and exhibit him to the assembled “ weans” in Mrs. Rodger’s 
kitchen. 

This apartment, which answered all purposes to the family, was a 
good sized room, showing an expanse of uncovered floor, not over 
clean, and a great wooden “ bunker ” for coals, as its most noticeable 
feature. The “bunker” is an article which belongs exclusively 
to the Household arrangements of Glasgow. This one was not very- 
high, as it happened, and on the corner of it sat Miss Jeanie, her 
hands busy with her work, her feet deposited on a chair below. 
Miss Aggie, in like manner, occupied a corner of the table in the 
window. Their work required a good deal of light, and they were 
fettered by no punctillios as to attitude. Miss Rodger, the eldest sis- 
ter, flitted in and out of a dark scullery — and withdrawn as far as 
possible from the light, in the dusky corner, by the fireside, sat a 
shabby and not very young man, with shuffling, indolent limbs 
stretched across the hearth, anil pins, the sole gathering of his idle- 
ness, stuck in the lapel of his dusty, w r orn coat, and a face that 
promised betler things. This was “ Johnnie,” as they called him, 
Mrs. Rodger’s only son. Poor Johnnie had begun this sad manner 
of life by a long illness, and now between his rheumatism and his 
false shame, incapable, as it seemed, of any strenuous endeavor to 


HARRY MUIR. 


37 

make up for what he had lost, had sunk into the state of an indolent 
dependent upon the little earnings of his sisters. They had their 
faults, these women; but never one of them murmured at the bur- 
den thus thrown upon them. Living very meanly, as they were 
constrained to do, they were still perfectly content to toil lor John- 
nie. It never seemed to occur to them at all, indeed, that the natu- 
ral order of things was reversed in their case. Sometimes, it is true, 
there was a quarrel between the mother, who was a termagant, 
and the poor, indolent, shipwrecked son, whose temper was easily 
galled, having always this sore consciousness to bear it company- 
hut never one of the sisters upbraided Johnnie, or made a merit of 
laboring for him. Amidst all their vanity, and vulgarity, this one 
feature elevated the character of the family, and gave to those three 
very commonplace young women a standing-ground of which no 
one could possibly be less conscious than they were themselves. 

The large good-humored hoyden, Miss Aggie, danced the baby in 
her arms, and carried him to the fireside to her brother. Poor 
Johnnie took the boy more gently, and praised him to his mother’s 
heart’s content, while Violet, no longer shy, but at present very 
fluent and talkative, stood by the side of her special friend and ally, 
Mr. John. The little girl and the poor indolent man were on very 
intimate terms. 

“ I was just telling our weans,” repeated Mrs. Rodger, “ that the 
wee boy would be just another creature after awhile in the coun- 
try; and cheeks like roses you’ve gotten yoursel’ Mrs. Muir. It 
would be unco’ dull though, I’m thinking— if it had only been the 
saut water— but it’s now the season for the saut watei. I mind when 
Archie was living — that’s their father — we gaed down regular to 
Dundoon, and it was just a pleasure to see the weans when they 
came harae. ” 

“ Agnes, Martha says the tea’s ready,” said Violet, “ and I’m to 
carry little Harry ben.” 

The tea-table in the parlor was pleasantly covered, and still more 
pleasantly surrounded, and Agnes’ basket, which the good uncle’s 
own hands had packed, remained still unopened; so the baby was 
given over to the safe keeping of Rose, and the busy young wife 
began to distribute Uncle Sandy’s tokens of remembrance. 

“ This pot of honey is tor you, Martha— Uncle Sandy thought 
you would liKe to give it to us all, now and then, on high days— 
and here is a bottle of cream from Mrs. Thomson, at the corner, and 
a little silk handkerchief to Rose, and the last ot the apples to ‘Vio- 
let— and see here, look, all of you, look!” 

Two little flower -pots carefully packed with moss, one of them 
bearing a tuft of fragrant little violets, the other proudly support- 
ing a miniature rose bush, with one little bud just appearing from its 
gieen leaves — good gentle uncle! He had been at so much trouble 
getting this fairy rose, and cherishing it in his little sitting-room, 
till this solitary bud rewarded his nursing, ft was hailed with a 
burst of delight from Violet, and by the elder sisters with a pleas- 
ure which almost reached to tears. 

” It is so like my uncle,” said Rose. 

And then with some happy excitement, they gathered round the 
tea-table. Harry had a great budget of local news to open, and the 


38 


HAIIRY MUIR. 


blillie Agues interrupted him every moment to tell of her first im- 
pressions, and new acquaintance. There had been beautiful 
weather, sunny and soft, as it often is in the eatly part of April, 
and the young wife had left all cares behind her on the grave 
shoulders ot Martha. Harry had been so well, so happy, so con- 
siderate-enjoying so thoroughly the simple pleasures of his old 
home, and ihe society of his pure unsophisticated uncle — Agnes 
thought she had never been so happy 

And Harry’s face was sparkling with healthful, blameless pleas- 
ure. He looked so man like, the center of their anxieties and 
wishes, and was in reality so fresh-hearted and capable of innocent 
enjoyment, that Maltha’s troubled heart grew glad ovei the success 
of iter expei iment. He had been home — he had seen again in these 
old scenes, the pure heioic fancies ot his earliest youth, and many 
days hence the anxious sister thought, the happy effect would re- 
main. 

They closed the evening, as it was always closed in the house at 
Ayr — with the simple and devout worship ot the family. Harry, 
with his fine mind so clear to-night, and happily elevated, a young 
household priest, conducted those simple fervent devotions— lor the 
religious emotions were strong within* him. They swayed him 
much sometimes, as, unfortunately, other feelings swayed him al 
other some; but he wa> deeply susceptible at all times to all the 
beauty, all the graudeur ot the holy faith he professed. The young 
man’s voice trembled, and his heart swelled as he appealed to the 
Great Father for the sake ot the wonderful Sod. And as, most 
humbly aud earnestly, be asked for strength against temptation, the 
tears in Martha’s eyes were tears of hope— almost of joy. She 
thought that surely never again this young ingenuous spirit would 
fall--never again forsake that holy brotherhood, at whose head He 
stands, who was once tempted for the sake of us — to defile its gar- 
ments with the mean sins of former times. There was a shadow of 
deep quiet upon all the faces as they rose from their knees; they 
thought they had come to the beginning of a purer, happier time. 
They, these anxious women, thought so for him; and he, poor 
Harry! for himself, with those joyous eyes ot his, looked forward 
to the future without fear. 


CHAPTER IX. 

1 was gay as the other maidens — all the springs and hopes and youthful 
things of the world were like me: prithee, lady, think not I say so out of envy of 
your fair estate; for in good sooth, youth is estate enough for a free heart. But 
before youth goes, troubles come— yourself must meet them anon— and be not 
fearful, gentle one; for it may be they will leave rare wealth with you, and take 
but a little sunshine away . — Old Play. 

Tiie next day Harry entered blithely upon his old duties again. 
The morning was sunny and bright, and Agnes stood at the win- 
dow with the baby, to watch him as he emerged from the outer 
rioor below, and turned to look up to her, and take ofi liis hat in 
playful salutation. He had a little cluster ot fresh spring prim- 
roses, pulled last morning in the Ayr garden, gracing his button- 
hole, and there was a spring in his step, and an elastic grace in his 


H A. UR Y MUIR. 


39 


manner as he went away, that made glad the heart, of tlie little 
wife. They were all very blithe this morning— the gladness caine 
involuntarily from Agnes’ lips in the familiar form of song; she 
sung to the baby — she sung to them all. 

She was still a girl, this pretty wife of Harry Muir — a girl be- 
longing to that very large class, who never discover that they have 
hearts at all, until they have sent them forth on some great venture 
periling all peace forever. Agnes had been a very gay, perhaps a, 
rather foolish girl— liking very greatly the small vanities which she 
could reach, and managing to keep out of sight the graver matters 
of life. She knew what it was to be poor— but then she had known 
that all her life, and the difficulties fell upon elder people, not on 
herself, and Agnes sailed over them with innocent heedlessness. 
The heart slumbered quietiy in her bosom— she scarcely knew it 
was there, except when it beat high sometimes for some small merry- 
making; scarcely even when she married Harry Muir were those 
gay placid waters stirred. She liked him very much— she admired 
him exceedingly— she was very proud of him— yet still she had not 
found out her heart. 

But wlieu the cloud began to steal over the gay horizon of her 
life— when she had to waich for his coming, and tremble for his 
weakness, and weep ever his faults those sad apologetic tears, and 
say, poor Harry! then this unknown existence began to make itself 
felt within the sobbing breast of the little, pretty, girlish wite. The 
sad and fatal weakness, which made him in a certain degree de- 
pendent upon them— which aroused the feelings of anxious care, 
the eager expedients 10 protect him from himself, gave a new 
character to Agnes. In sad peril now was the happiness of this 
young, tender, sensitive heart; but the danger that threatened it had 
quickened it into conscious life. 

He went away with smiles, and hopeful freshness to his daily 
labor. He came home, honestly wearied, at an earlier hour than 
usual, having his conscience free of offense that day, So happily 
they all gathered about the little tea-table; so gayly Agnes presided 
at its tea-making, and Maltha placed on the table the little crystal 
vessel full of honey— odorous honey, breathing out stories of all the 
home flowers of Ayr — so much the travelers had still to tell, and 
the dwellers at home to hear. 

“And now, Martha,” said Harry, “put on your bonnet, and 
come out 1 believe she has never been out, Agnes, all the lime we 
have been away.’' 

“ les. indeed, Iiariy— Martha was always at the kirk,” said the 
literal Violet. 

“ But we are not going to the kirk lo-night— come, Martha, and 
taste tins April air.” 

Martha looked at her work. “ It is a temptation, Harry; hut 1 think 
you had belter take Rose— see, Rose looks white with working so 
long, and I have to go to the warehouse to morrow/’ 

“To the Candleriggs!” said Harry, laughing. “Where you 
scarcely can tell when it is June and when December; and it Rose 
is white, you are absolutely green with sitting shut up here so long 
— come, Martha.” 

It was not very complimentary, but the pallid faded cheek of 


HARRY MUIR. 


40 

Martha actually bore, to eyes which had been in the sunshine, a 
tiui>e ot that undesirable hue. Save for the beneficent rest ot the 
Sabbath day, and the walk through the hushed streets to church, 
Martha had indeed, since her brother went to Ayr, never been out 
of doors. The luxury ot sending Harry to the pure home atmos- 
phere was not a cheap one. She had been laboring for, while he 
enjoyed it. 

“ But what if Mr. Charteris comes?” said Hose, with a little shy- 
ness: no one else seemed to remember that Mr. Charteris was to 

come. , 

“We shall not stay long,” said Harry; “ you must keep him till 

we return.” 

Rose seemed half inclined to go too; but she remembered how 
often Martha had sent her out to enjoy the walk which she had de- 
nied herself; and there were a great many “ holes,” as those very 
prosaic seamstresses called the little spaces in the centers ot the em- 
broidered flowers, at which they worked, to be finished before they 
were returned to the warehouse to-morrow — so even at the risk of a 
little additional conversation with the formidable Mr. Charteris, 
Rose made up her mind to stay. 

And Martha and Harry went out alone. They "were not vvithin 
reach of any very pleasant place for walking, but they struck off 
through some of those unsettled transitionist fields which hang about 
the outskirts of great towns, to the side of the canal. Those soft 
spring evenings throw a charm over the commonplace atmosphere, 
of even such ordinary haunts as this — and it is wonderful indeed, 
when one’s eyes and heart are in proper trim, how the great sky 
itself alone, and the vast world ot common air, inw^hicli we breathe, 
and through which human sounds come to us, can suffice to refresh 
our minds with the Nature, which is beautiful in every place. 

The distant traffic of the “ Port,” to whicti this canal is the sea; 
the flutter of dingy sloop sails, and a far-off prospect of the bare 
cordage, and briet masts of little Dutch vessels, delivering their 
miscellaneous cargoes there, gave a softened home look, almost like 
the quiet harbor ot some little seaport, to a scene which, close at 
baud, could boast of few advantages. But the air was bright with 
the haze of sunset, and in the east the sky had paled down to the 
exceeding calmness ot the eventide, lying silently around its length- 
ened strips of island cloud, like an enchanted sea. Dull and blank 
was the long level line ot water at their feet, yet it was water still, 
and flowed, or seemed to flow; and along the bank came the steady 
tramp of those strong horses, led by a noisy cavalier whose accouter- 
ments clanked and jingled like a steam-engine, piloting the gayly- 
painted “ Swift ” boat from Edinburgh, with its crowds of impa- 
tient passengers, to the end of their tedious journey. These were 
homely sights — but the charmed atmosphere gave a harmony tc 
them all. 

And there were some trees upon this side of the canal — and grass 
as green as though it lived a country life, and stout weeds, rank 
and vigorous, by the side of the way — and the hum of the great 
town came softly on their ear, with lu re and there a distinct sound, 
bieakiug the inarticulate hum of that mass of busy life. Better 
than alt these, there was such perfect confidence between the 


HARRY MUIR. 


41 


■brother and sister, as had scarcely been before, since he was the 
unstained boy, innocent and ignotant, and she the eager teacher, 
putting forth a second time in this young untried vessel, the solemn 
venture of her hopes. It was not that Harry had anything to con- 
fide to the anxious heart, which noted all his thoughts and modes 
of feeling so narrowly; but the little daily things which sometimes 
have so weighty a bearing upon the most important matters of life 
— the passing fancies, the very turns of expression, which show the 
prevailing tone of the speaker’s mind, were so frankly visible to the 
eye of the watchful sister, that Martha’s heart rejoiced within her 
With solemn joy. 

Meanwhile, Rose sat alone in the parlor doing her work, some- 
what nervously, and hoping fervently that Mr. Charteris would not 
come till “ somebody was in ” to receive him. 

The baby lay sound asleep in the cradle. Agnes had gone down 
to Mrs. McGarvie to negotiate about some washing, and was at this 
moment standing in Mrs. McGarvie’s kitchen, near the small table 
where Mrs. McGarvie herself, with the kettle in one hand, anil a 
great horn spoon in the other, was pouring a stream of boiliDg water 
into a bowl half filled with the beautiful yellow peasemeal, which 
keeps the stomactis of Glasgow in such superlative order, com- 
pounding the same into brose, for the supper of Rah, who, newly 
come in, Uad just removed his blue bonnet from his shaggy red head 
in honor of his mother’s visitor. Mrs. McGarvie had undertaken 
the washing, and Agnes, in her overflowing happy spirits, was tell- 
ing her about the journey, from which they had just returned. 

Yiolet, last of all, was in Mrs. Rodger’s “ big room,” a very spa- 
cious, fine apartment, which was generally occupied by some lodger. 
They had no tenant for it at present, and were this evening enter- 
taining a partv in the large, loltv, shabbily furnished dining-ioom. 
Violet had gone in among these guests with the natural curiosity of 
a child, and poor Rose, nervously apprehensive of the coming of 
this formidable Mr. Charteris, sat in the parlor alone. 

Her busy fingers began to flag as she filled up these “ holes and 
now and then, the work dropped on her knee. The ordinary ap- 
prehensions about Harry. which generally formed the central ob- 
ject of her thoughts, were pleasantly hushed to-night. Rose was 
not thinking about anytning particular— she would have said so, at 
] eas t— but for all that, long trains of indefinite fancies were flitting 
through her mind, and her thick blunt needle was altogether stayed 
now aud then — only recovering in hysteric hursts its ordinary move- 
ments, when Rose trembled to fancy that she heard a step on ihe 
stair. If Agnes would only come in —if Harry and Martha were 
but home again! . . „ 

At last a step was on the stair in reality. “ May be it is Agnes, 
said Rose to herself as her needle began to fly again through the 
muslin— but it was not Agnes— it was the foot of a man— poor Rose 
wondered if by any possibility she could run away. 

And there he was, this sad ogre, whom Rose ieared, quietly open- 
ing the parlor door, as if he had some right to be there Mr. Char- 
teris was almost as shy as Rose herself. He sat down with pleased 
embarrassment, and looked exceedingly awkward, and spoke by no 
means so sensibly as he was used to do.. Rose eagerly explained 


HARRY MUIR. 


42 

the reason why she was alone, and went to the window in haste to 

look tor Agnes. , . . . . , 

Mi Charteris’ eye had been caught by something of a very faded 
neutral hue, in a black frame, which hung above the mantel -piece. 
He asked Miss Rose if it was embroidery. 

Miss Rose was moved lo laughter, and her laugh dispersed the 
mist ot shyness very pleasantly. ' “ It is only an old sampler ot my 
grandmother’s, Mr. Charteris.” 

Mr. Charteris rose to look at it. 

“ There is not. mu li art in it,” said Rose, “ it seems that all the 
landscapes on sampl ;rs are of one style— but my mother gave it to 
me when 1 was a girl— a little girl— and 1 used lo be proud ot it, 
because it was my own.” 

Mr. Charteris took it down to examine its beauties more closely. 
It bore the name of the artist at full length, “ Rose Allenders.” and 
had a square house, and some very original trees, like the trees of 
very old paintings, elaborately worked upon it. 

“ L think you said she had been long dead,” said Cuthbert. 

“Long ago — very long ago,” said Rose. “ When my mother 
was only a child, my grandmother died. Her name is on tire stone, 
among the rest ot the Calders, and her father and her little sister 
are near her, in the churchyard. Uncle Sandy used to take us there 
when we were children. * I believe he thought they would feel 
lonely in their very graves, because they lay among strangers.” 

There was a pause. Cuthbert again hung up the faded sampler, 
and Rose worked most industriously at ber opening. Each was 
earnestly endeavoring to invent something to say — and both of them 
were singularly unsuccessful. It was the greatest possible relief to 
Rose to hear Hurry’s voice in the passage. 

The two young men greeted each other heartily — it seemed t hat 
there was some charm in these very faults ot poor Harry— for every- 
body learned to like and apologize for, even while they blamed him. 

“ And so you are going to Ayr,” said Harry; ‘‘ why did you not 
come a little earlier, Mr. Charteris, that I might have shown our 
town to you. You will not appreciate the beauties it has, unless 
some one, native to it, points them oat.” 

” For which cause I am here to seek an introduction which Miss 
Muir promised me to your uncle,” said Cuthbert. 

“ To my uncle? are you a character hunter, Mr. Charteris?” said 
Harry quickly, and with something which Rose thought looked like 
rudeness. 

“ No, 1 don’t think so— but why do you ask me?” 

” Because the vulgar call my uncle a character and an original,” 
said Harry. “ 1 thought your cousin, who saw him once, might 
have told you so— and he does not like the imputation. We are 
jealous of my uncle’s feelings, as we have a good right to be, for 
he has been father, and teacher, and companion alike io all of us.” 

‘‘ 1 had some business in the neighborhood of Ayr,” said Cuth- 
bert, with a little conscious embarrassment — ** one of those things 
in our profession that border upon the romantic — there are not 
many Of them, Miss Bose;— I want to trace out some links of de- 
scent — to find some lost members of an old family. 1 shall fiud 
them only by means of gravestones, 1 apprehend, but that will an- 


HARRY MUIR. 


43 


swer my purpose. It is not quite in my department, this kind of 
business; but it is pleasant to nave some excuse for seeing so fine a 
country in this time when ‘ hfik are louden to gon on pilgrimages . * 
1 think you must begin to feel this longing, Miss Muir?” 

“ It is wonderful liow easily ( ne can content oneself,” said Mar- 
tha, with a smile which spoke of singular peace. “ We have only 
to shut our eyes, Rose and I, and straightway we are at home — or 
to send some one else to enjoy it, Mr. Charteris. Harry and Agnes 
have brought us so much of the atmosphete that I scarcely desire it 
now tor myself.” 


CHAPTER X. 

“ Ay, even here, in the close city streets, 

’Tis good to see the sunset— how the light, 

Curious and scornful, thrusts away the masses 
Of vapor brooding o’er the busy town, 

Yet leaves a trace of rosy light the while 
Even on the tiling it scorns. 

And the rich air gives sweetness to all sounds; 

And hazy sunbeams glorify young faces— 

And labor turns aside, glad of its hour 
Of aimless idling.” 

Cuthbert Charteris, much against his will, was detained a 
week longer in Glasgow. His uncle, a man of unbounded hos- 
pitality, an almost invariable characteristic of his class, was not 
without a little family pride in Cuthbert’s attainments and position 
— and such a succession of people had been already invited to 
“ meet ” Mr. Buchanan’s advocate nephew, that Cuthbert’s good 
humor, though already sufficiently taxed, would not suffer him to 
disappoint them. Neither was it until the very last evening of the 
week, when he had made positive arrangements tor going to Ayr 
next day, that he had leisure to call on the Muirs. 

The sun was setting on the soft April evening, and the slanting 
level sunbeams streamed through the dusty streets, drawing out in 
long shadows the outline of the houses. Within these shadows the 
bystanders felt almost the chill of winter, while in the sunshine at 
the street corners, lounging groups congratulated each other that 
summer had come at last. 

Here the light fell on a white * mutch ” or two, and on the sun- 
burned heads of innumerable children, of whose boisterous play the 
gossip mothers took no notice. There it glimmered and sparkled 
in braids and curls, and plaits of beautiful hair which a coiffeur 
might have studied lor the benefit of his art, and which you could 
scarcely fancy the short thick toil-hardened fingers of these laugh- 
ing mill-girls able to produce. But toilsome as their factory life 
was, it had its edge of enjoyment, quite as bright and enlivening as 
the evening recreations of any other class— and with those young 
engineer workmen clustering around them, and the evening sun- 
shine and the hum of continual sound— sound which expressed re- 
pose and spoit, and scarcely had the least adinixtureot the laborious 
din of full day— filling the ‘atmosphere, there were many scenes less 
pleasant and less gi aceful, than t lie street corner and its groups of 
mill-girls. And here, up the broad road, now almost hee of the 


HARRY MUIR. 


44 

carts which usually crowd it, dashes at full speed a bright little 
equipage glowing in green and gold, which draws up with a flour- 
ish at the corner. Straightway the “ closemouths ” and “ common 
stairs ” pour forth a stream of girls and women, carrying vessels of 
every form and size, from the small china cream-jug from some 
lonely lady’s tea-table, to the great pitcher under which little Mary 
staggers as she carries it home in her arms to supply the porridge of 
a dozen brothers and sisters; and you never were refreshed with 
richer milk under the deepest umbrage of summer trees, than that 
which gives forth its balmy stream from the pretty green barrels 
hooped with brilliant brass, which rest upon the light framework 
ot the Port Dundas dairy cart. 

Rose Muir stood at the door as Cuthbert approached— he had 
chosen a later hour than usual for his visit, that he might not dis- 
turb them at their simple evening meal — but as he glanced ai the 
downcast face of Rose, over which an uneasy color was flushing, 
he saw that the old anxiety, the origin of which he had guessed at 
before, had now again returned. The long wistful glances she 
cast along the street— the eager expectant look with which she 
turned to himself— once before the herald of poor Harry— would 
have almost sufficed to reveal the secret of the family to Cuthbert 
had he not guessed it before. 

“ Harry has not come borne yet,” said Rose, with an unconscious 
apology in her tone; ‘‘they are sometimes kept very late at the 
office— but my sisters are upstairs, Mr. Oharteris; will you come 
in?” 

Cuthbert followed her silently. He had become so much inter- 
ested in tlie fortunes of the family that he felt his own heart sink, 
as he remembered that ‘‘ the office ” had been closed a full hour 
ago. 

Agnes was alone when they entered the parlor, and Cuthbert, 
roused to observation, saw her sudden start as they opened the door, 
and the pallor and sickness ot disappointment which came over her 
pretty youthful face, when her eye fell upon himself. The work 
she had been busy with tell from the fingers which seemed for the 
moment loo nervous to hold it. The little wife had been so confi- 
dent — so sure of Harry’s reformation— and her heart was throbbing 
now with a positive agony of mingled fear and hope. 

Cuthbert seated himself on the sofa, and began to talk of the baby 
—it was almost the only subject which could soothe the young 
mother— but even while he spoke he could see how nervously 
awake they both were to every sound; how Rose suspended her 
work and held her breath at every footstep in the street below which 
seemed to approach the door— and how the needle stumbled in the 
small fingers of Agnes, and the unusual color flickered on her cheek. 

‘‘You are very late, Harry,” said Martha, entering from the 
inner room— Cuthbert’s back was toward her— she thought it was 
her brother. 

“ It is Mr. Charteris, Martha,” said Rose. 

There was a fiery light in Martha’s eyes — an imDatience almost 
fierce in the evident pang, and short suppressed exclamation with 
which she discovered hei mistake. She too had been strong in her 


HARRY MUIR. 45 

renewed hope— had begun to rest with a kind of confidence in the 
changed mind of Harry. 

But now the former chafing bad commenced again, and the bitter 
hopelessness which once before overpowered her, returned upon her 
heart — Cutbbert thought of the old grand picture of the bound 
Prometheus — of the lurid background, and the cold tints of the 
captive figure, rigid in his manacled strength, with the vulture at 
his heart. Bitterest of dooms, to be bound to this misery, without 
one five hand to struggle against it. 

But Martha took her seat in silence, and a conversation was very 
languidly carried on. Insensibly (Juthbert felt the same anxiety 
steal over himself — he felt that he ought to go away, but yet he re- 
mained. By degrees the conversation dwindled into broken re- 
marks from himself, and faltering responses from Rose and Agnes; 
sometimes indeed Martha spoke, but her words were harsh and 
bitter, or else full of a conscious mockery of iight-kearledness, which 
was moi # e painful still. 

The tea tray wth its homely accompaniments stood on the table — 
the little kettle sung by the sme of the old : fashioned grate, — but 
the night was now far advauced, and, reluctant to shut out the 
lingering remains of daylight, the sisters had laid aside their woik; 
it was almost dark, and still Harry had not come. 

“ Where’s Violet, Agnes?” said Martha, after a long silence. 

“ She went out to play,” said the little wife. “ St>me of her friends 
were down here, and they wanted her. 1 could not keep Lettie in, 
Martha, on so fine a night.” 

“ I was angry at the poor bairn,” said Martha, with a singular 
humility; “ 1 did wrong. 1 will go myself and look for her— our 
troubles are not so few that we should make additions to them of 
our own will.” 

There was a strange pathos in the low tone in which Martha 
spoke, and in the sudden melting of the strained vehement heart, 
Uuthbeit saw the trembling hand of Agnes steal up to her eyes, 
and heard the appealing depreciatory whisper of Rose, ‘‘Oh, 
Martha!” He could see its meaning— he could hear in it an echo 
of that other exclamation — poor Harry! so common in this house. 

Little Violet had been at play in the stieet below, carrying the 
value- blank grief of childhood into her very sport. As Martha rose 
the little girl suddenly burst into the room. ‘‘ Agnes, Harry’s com- 
ing. ” 

They were all very quiet— a sort of hush of deep apprehension 
came upon the sisters, and Rose went, out hastily to the door. 

In another moment Harry had entered the room— looking very 
pale, and with an unmeaning smile upon his face. He came for- 
ward with great demonstration to greet Charteris, and hunied over 
an elaborate account of things which had detained him— the strangest 
complication of causes, such as came in no one’s way but his. 

“ Why don’t you light the candles?” said poor Harry, with an 
ostentatious endeavor at high spirits. ** Have you been sitting in 
the dark like so many crows? Rosie, quick, light this, and get 
another candle. You don’t think we can see with one, and Mr. 
Charteris here. Have you not got tea yet, Agnes? Nonsense, what 
made you wait for me? 1 can’t always be home at your hours, you 


46 


HARRY MUIR. 


know — when a man hasn’t his time at his own disposal, you know* 
Mr. Char teris— what is it now..?— what do you want. Let tie? ’ 

The solitary candle had been lighted, and placed on the table. It 
threw a painful illumination upon Harry’s perfectly colorless face, 
as he stood in the middle of the room, with an unsteady swing in 
his movements. Agnes had left the arm-chair to him, but still he 
stood by the table, while Rose, with a paleness almost as great as 
his upon her face, went about painfully arranging things that 
needed no arrangement, and Martha sat rigid in her chair. 

“ 1 say, what is it, Lettie?” repeated Harry. 

“ Nothing, Harry, only you’ve turn your coat,” said Violet. 

She showed it to him, some one had seized his skiit apparently 
to detain him, and a great rent was visible. It brought a sudden 
flush to the damp face of poor Harry, but the flush w as of defiance 
and auger. He s' ruck Violet with his open hand, and exclaimed 
impatiently, “ Get away! what business have you with that?” 

It was a very slight blow, and Violet shrunk away in silence out 
of the room, hut a deep red burning color flushed over Maltha’s 
faded face, and with a quick impulsive start, she rose from her 
chair. 

” Harry!” fier harsh, hoarse voice seemed to sober the unhappy 
lad. He looked round him for a moment on those other pale faces, 
and on the grieved and embarrassed Cuthbert, with the defiant 
stare which lie hyd tried to maintain before; but as his eyes turned 
to Martha, and to the deep and painful color of shame and anguish, 
on her face, poor Harry’s courage fell. He did not speak— he 
glide! into the vacant chair, and suddenly abandoning his poor 
design of concealment covered his face with his hands. 

“ Harry is not well, he is not strong, poor fellow,” said Agnes, 
almost sobbing; ‘‘get a cup of tea for him, Rose. Martha, sit 
dowrn.” 

Martha obeyed mechanically. There was a struggle in the face 
of poor Harry’s passionate sister. The fierce impatience of her 
anger seemed melting away— melting into that utter despondency 
and hopelessness— that deep humiliation, which with the second 
sight that sometimes adds new pangs to sorrow, saw that to hope 
was useless and yet in the depths did only cling the closer to ibis 
impossible hope. * Poor Harry! Martha was not given to weeping, 
hut then she could have wept, such desperate, burning tears, as only 
come out of the depths. 

Cuthbert felt that it he had helped to increase their pain by being 
a spectator of this scene, he would but add to it by hastening im- 
mediately away. 

“ l shall have a long walk,” he said, with forced ease, ” and I 
think 1 must now crave your last message for Ayr, Miss Muir. 
What am 1 to say to your uncle?” 

‘‘ That you left us — nay,” said Martha, restraining herself with 
a great effort, and glancing over to Harry with a strange yearning 
look of grief, “ say little to the old man, Mr. Charteris. He knows 
how he would wish us to be in his own gentle heart, and it is bpst 
to leave it so; say we were well, and now we must not detain you. 
Harry, have you anything to say to my uncle?” 

Poor Hany uncovered Ids white, unhappy face. “ I?— nothing 


— nothing— you know 1 have nothing to say— good-bye, Mr. Char- 
teris.” . „ . 

“ It is so short a time since we left Ayr,” said Agnes, ottering 
Cuthbert her trembling hand. 

And then lie left the loom. 

The lobby was*quite dark. Cuthbert fancied he heard some sound 
like a suppressed fob as Rose stole out after him, and closed the 
parlor door. It was Violet sitting in gloom and solitude on the 
ground, with her little desolate heart well nigh bursting. Martha 
had been displeased at her. Harry had struck her, and fearful 
dreams of being utterly alone, and having no one iu the world to 
care lor her, were passing drearily through Violet’s mind, lliat 
sad dumb anguish of the child, which we do not seem ever to re- 
member when we have children to deal with, weighed down the 
young spirit to the vet} 7 dust. She thought, poor solitary giil, mis- 
erable proud thoughts of dying, and leaving them to grieve for her 
when she was dead, who would not care for her enough when she 
was living — and she thought, too of toiling on alone to the vague 
gi eat ness wdiich children dream of, and shutting up her heart iu tier 
solitary course, from tiiose wdio had chilled and rejected it so early. 
Poor little dreaming inconsistent poetic child, who in an hour could 
be bright as the sunshine again, but while it lasted there were few 
things iu elder life so bitter as that childish pain. 

Rose lifted her up and followed Charteris to the door, holding the 
Weeping and leluctant Violet within her arm. 14 Mr. Charteris, 
said Rose, eagerly, 44 do not say anything to my uncle about— 1 
mean, will you just tell him we are well, and not say that anything 
nils Harry? Will you, Mr Charteris?” 

Cuthbert did not quite know what he answered, neither did Rose: 
but whatever it was it cheered her; and as he went away the youth- 
ful woman lingered in the darkness, stooping over the child. Rose 
had reached a tunher stage than Violet in this grave journey of life; 
and if she knew mure fully the absolute causes of the family afflic- 
tion she had outgrown the indefinite gloom and terror. Other 
thoughts, too, came in to lighten, in some degree, the heaviness of 
her own heart, as she soothed and consoled her little sister. Ilarry 
hitherto had been constantly the central object in her mind— the 
dearest always, and in his brightest times the best— perhaps only 
the more endeared tor all his weakness; but now there began to 
davs n upon Rose a stronger, purer, higher ideal. Stealthy and trem- 
ulous the thought glided into her mind; a higher excellence than 
poor Harry’s— a fairer fate than that of Harry’s sister. She put it 
away as it it had been guilt; but still it had looked in upon her, 
and leit a trace of secret sunshine behind. 

Thus they were, the child and the girl— Violet already cheered by 
the gentle voice of Rose, and Rose lightened with the fair fantastic 
Jjo-ht of her own thick-coming fancies. Neither forgot the sorrow 
which was parted from them only by these slight walls neilhei yet 
could stay their involuntary tears— and the elder heart overflowed 
with pity and tenderness for poor Harry: but y-st there were others 
than Harry in the world for both. 

Within that little iootri it was far otherwise. He was sitting there 
still, bis clasped hands covering his face, and the cup of tea, which 


HARRY MUIR. 


48 

Agnes had poured out for him, standing untasted on the table No 
one else had thought of beginning to this joyless meal. Agnes sat 
near him, leaning her arm upon his chair, touching his shoulder 
sometimes, and murmuring “Harry;*’ but he had not lifted his 
head. Opposite him, Martha sat very still, her eyes wandering 
about, her fingers convulsively clasped, her features moving. Some- 
times she started suddenly, as if she could have dashed that aching 
brow of hers against the wall; sometimes a low unconscious moan 
escaped from her lips; and when, alter wandering round the room, 
noting the little well-known peculiarities of its furniture, as people 
only do in their bitterest moments, her eyes turned to Harry lying 
motionless in his chair, with the damp hair clustering upon his 
brow, and his hands hiding bis face, the anger and passion fled 
away from her brow like shadows. Poor Harry 1 in his weakness, 
in his sin — only so much the more her own — not the strong man 
now, for whom she had woven dreams of fond and proud ambition 
— but ever and always the dependent boy, the child she tended long 
ago— -the unhappy fad over whom her heart yearned now as a 
mother. Martha rose — the tears came out from under her dry eye- 
lids— a sad smile dawned upon the stern harsh features of her face. 
She laid her hand upon his shoulder. 

“ Harry, Harry, is it worth all this misery? We have nothing 
but you — no hope in this world but you. Will you take it from 
us, Harry? Will you make us desolate?” 

The little wife looked up through her tears, begging forbearance. 
Poor Harry himself lifted his head, and grasped the hands she held, 
out to him. “Never again — never again.” 

Her tears tell upon the clasped hands, and so did In's. “ Never 
again.” Violet crept to his side, and softly laid her little hand upon 
his arm. Agnes, weeping quietly, rested her head upon his shoul- 
der, almost happy again in the reconciliation; and Hose stood be- 
hind his chair. 

Poor Harry! They all heard his vow; they all tried to take up 
their hope, and once more look fearlessly on the future. No one 
believed more devoutly than he did himself that now he could not 
fall again. No one was so confident as he that this sin was his last, 
“ Never again.” Heavy, unseen tears tiowed from under Martha’s 
unclosed eyelids that night, when all the rest were peacefully asleep 
—poor Harry first of all. “ Never again! The words moved her to- 
anything but hope. Poor Harry! 


CHAPTER XI. 

“ Winter hath many clays most like to spring ; 

Soft thawing winds, and rains like dew, and gleams 
Of sweet inconstant sunshine.— I have seen 
An old man’s heart that ne’er was done with seedtime 
Abiding. in its gracious youth forever.” 

The next morning very early, while Martha Muir, unable to rest, 
sat at the window, carefully mending the torn coat which was poor 
Harry’s only one, Cutlibert Cbarteris set out on the top of the coack 
for Ayr. What he had seen on the previous night oppressed him 


HARR* MUIR. 


49 


heavily, weighing down even the natural exhilaration which the 
morning sunshine usually brougUt to a mind void ot offense toward 
men, and waking by taith humbly with God. Continually that 
scene rose up before iiim— the hidden tears and trembling of Agnes 
and Rose— the stern agitation of Martha— the fatuous smile upou 
poor Harry’s white conscious face. “Poor Harry!” the stranger 
echoed with emotiop, the sad tenderness of this lamentation so 
familiar to Harry's nearest friends. 

Harry, meanwhile, was peacefully asleep, unconscious of the 
hopeless musing of his sister, as she sat by the window not long 
after sunrise, doing this sad piece of work lor him, and of the 
gloom which he cast over the happier mind of his friend; a com- 
mon case— almost too common to need recording. 

It was the afternoon before Charteris left His inn to seek the house 
of Alexander Muir. In the intermediate time he had been wander- 
ing about the town, and hunting through one old church-yard 
which lay in his way for the graves of the Allenders; but his search 
was not successful. The afternoon was bright and warm, the 
month being now far advanced, and he was directed easily to the 
residence of the old man whom everybody seemed t* know. It 
was in one of the quiet back streets of the town, a narrow-causewayed 
lane, kept in a kind ot constant twilight by the shadows of tall 
houses. The house he sought was not tall— its low door opened 
immediately from the rough stones of the street; and on either side 
was a square window fortified with strong panes of greenish glass, 
which gave a hue by no means delightful to the little checked- 
muslin blinds within. The upper story was a separate house, and 
had an outside stair ascending to it, which stair darkened the lower 
door, and served as a sort of porch, supported on the further side 
by a rude pillar ot mason-work. Cuthbert thought it a very dim,, 
dusky habitation for the gentle uncle of the Muirs. 

A little maid-servant, with a striped red-and-black woolen petti- 
coat and “ short gown ” of bright printed cotton, opened the door 
for him. Descending a single step, Cutlibert entered a narrow 
passage, at, the end of which was another open door, with a bright 
prospect of trees and flowers, and sunshine beyond. The lobby 
was paved with brick, very red and clean, which the little servant 
seemed just to have finislied scouring: and an open door on one 
side of it gave him a glimpse of a trim bed-chamber, with flowers 
on its little dressing-table; on the other side was another door 
(closed) of another bedroom; and, looking to the garden, the kitchen 
and the little parlor occupied the further side of tire house. 

“ win ye just gang in, sir,” said the girl, removing her pail out 
of Cuthbert’s way; “ ye’ll get him in the garden liimsel’.” 

Cuthbert obeyed, and passed by himself to the other door. 

A very singular scene awaited him there. Ihe gardeu was a 
large one and formed the greatest possible contrast to the dusky 
front ot the bouse. Apple-trees in full blossom, and a bright con- 
gregation of all the flowers of spring, surrounded the more homely 
produce in which the large inclosure seemed rich. The door was 
matted round with climbing plants, roses, and honeysuckles, which, 
in a month or two, would be as blight and fragrant as now they 


HAIUtY MUIR. 


50 

were green; and a splendid pear-tree, flushed with blossom, covered 
one entiie side of the house. 

But the animate part of the picture was still more remarkable- 
scattered through the garden in groups, but principally here near 
the door where some fine trees sheltered, and the sun shone upon 
them, were a number of girls, from fourteen to twenty, working the 
Ayrshire work as it is called — to wit, the fine embroideries on mus- 
lin, which the Muirs “ opened ’—and talkiug, as girls generally 
talk, very happily and gayly— with snatches of song, and pleasant 
laughter. They had all the average good looks, aud were dressed 
becomingly, as girls in their class, who maintain themselves by 
needlework, generally are. Completely astonished at first, Cuthbert 
became amused aud interested in the scene as he stood a moment 
unperceived at the door, especially when, through the embowering 
leaves, he caught a glimpse of the person ire had come to see. 

He was a little spare man, with hair nearly white, and a hale 
ruddy cheek. Seated in an arm-chair, in front of his parlor win- 
dow, with a book in his hand, it was very evident that the good 
man’s book had very little share of his attention. At present he 
was telling a story to his audience; and Cuthbert admired the 
natural eloquence, the simple grace of language, in which he clothed 
it. His speech was quite Scottish, and even a little provincial, but 
untainted with the least mixture ot vulgarity; and when lie had 
rounded his tale with a quotation from Burns, he opened tire book 
in which he had been keeping his place with his finger, only to 
close it again immediately, when a new demand was made upon his 
attention. 

“ Eli, Mr. Muir,” said one of the girls, “ what tor have ye such 
lots ot horse-gowans yonder in the corner?” 

“ They’re no horse-gowans, Beatie, my woman— they’re camo- 
mile,” said the ohl man. 

” Aud what is’t for? is it for eating?” asked the curious Beatie. 

” It’s for making drinks for no weel folk,” volunteered a better- 
informed companion. 

44 It’s for selling to John Wilson, the man that as taken up physic 
at his own hand,” said the chairman ot this strange assembly. 

They tell me lie’s a friend of Dr. Hornbook’s; you’ve all read 
of Dr. Hornbook in Bums.” 

There was a general assent; but some, among whom was the 
Beatie aforesaid, looked wistful and curious, aud had not heard of 
that eminent personage. 

“It’s a profane thing, a profane thing,” said Alexander Muir. 
44 Keep to the Cottar, like good bairns, le'll get no ill out of it. 
But what at s ye, Beatie, my woman?” 

" Eh, sir, it’s a gentleman,” said Beatie, under her breath. 
Whereupon there ensued a dead silence, and a fit ot spasmodic in- 
dusiry came upon the girls, occasionally interrupted by a smothered 
titter, as one of the more mischievous, who ss.t with her back to the 
door, tempted to laughter her companions, whose downcast faces 
were toward the stranger. 

Cuthbert introduced himself in a few words, and was heartily 
greeted by the old man. 44 1 have an obligation to you, sir, as well 
as the rest of them, tor your care of Harry,” said the uncle; 44 aud 


HARRY MUIR. 51 

ye left them well? They are my family, these bairns, an old soli- 
tary man as 1 am, and their friends are most welcome to me. 5 ' 

“ * ou seem to have another family round you here,” said Cuth- 
bert, looking with a smile on the demure group before him, some 
of whom were painfully suppressing the laugh which they could 
not altogether conceal. 

“ Neigh boi s’ bairns,” said Alexander Muir; “bits of innocent 
th'ngs t tiat have not the freedom of a garden like mine at home. 
There is a kind of natural kin between them and the spring. I like 
to see them among my flowers, and l think their work gets on all 
the better that, they are cheery in the doing of it; bnt to tell you 
the truth, 1 can not see, Mr. Charters, how our own bairns should 
think themselves better in Glasgow than with me, now that Harry 
has gotten a wite. ” 

‘‘Tiie wish to remain together, I fancy,” said Cuthbert, sadly 
remem bet ing the bitter tie winch kept them beside poor Harry; 
“ but both lor health and happiness, Mr. Muir, l should fancy they 
would be better with you.” 

“ Bay you so?” said the old man, eagerly, for happiness; ay, 
say you so?” 

Cuthbert hastened to explain away, so far as he could, the pain- 
ful meaning of liis words, leaving it to be inferred that it was only 
the fresh air and freedom of this pleasant place, of whUh they stood 
in need. 

”1 am going in for awhile with this gentleman,” said Uncle 
Sandy, raising his voice as he turned to his little congregation; “ but 
mind there is no need for you turning idle because 1 am not here to 
look after you; mind and be eident, as the cottar’s bairns were bid- 
den to be.” 

The girls acknowledged the smiling speech addressed to them by 
great demonstration of industry, and for a few minutes the blue 
stamped leaves and branches of their muslin grew into white em- 
broidery with wonderful speed. The old man looked round upon 
them with a smile, as they sat bending down their heads under the 
glistening sunshine over their prettj' work, and then, laying his 
book on his chair, he led the way into the house. 

The parlor was a very small one, considerably less than the best 
bedroom, which occupied the front of the house, and which, by an 
occupant of less poetic taste, would have been made the sitting- 
room, But Alexander Muir did not like the dull prospect of the 
little back street; lie preferred to look out upon the garden in which 
so much of his time was spent, and I lie little room was large enough 
tor all his quiet necessities. 

His old easy-chair had been removed from the fireside corner to 
the window. It was a latticed window, furnished with a broad 
shelf extending all the length, of its deep recess, which seemed to 
have been made for plants— but no plants interposed themselves be- 
tween the sunshine and the books, which were the best beloved 
companions of the old, gentle, solitary man. Cuthbert looked at 
them as they lay in little heaps in the corner of the window. There 
w’as no dust about them, but almost as little arrangement. They 
lay, as their contents lay in the head of their good master, mingled 
in pleasant friendliness. The Fourfold Slate and the Crook in the 


52 


HARRY MUIR. 


Lot embraced the royal sides of Shakespeare, and a much-used copy 
of Burns lay peacefully beside the Milton, which, to tell truth, 
opened more* easily at Comus or at 11 Penseroso than in either Para- 
dise. Besides these ih^re were Cowper and Young, an odd volume 
of the “ Spectator,” an old time-worn copy of the ” Pilgrim,” with 
4 ‘ Samuel Rutherford’s Letters,” and Fleming, the interpreter of 
prophecy, and the quaint Willison ballasting some volumes of Scott 
and Galt. Daily friends and comrades were these, bearing marks of 
long and frequent use, some of them incased in homely covers of 
green cloth, which the old man’s own careful hands had endued 
them with; some half bound, after his fashion, with stripes of un- 
cultivated “ calf ” defending their backs, and their boards gay with 
marbled paper. It was pleasant to see them, in their disarrange- 
ment, upon the broad ledge of the window, friends too intimate and 
familiar to be kept on ceremonious terms. 

“ Take a seat, Mr, Charteris,” said Uncle Sandy; “ if you had 
come while Harry was here it might have been pleasanter for you— 
for Harry, puor man, is a blithe companion; may be over blithe 
sometimes for his own well-doing. And you think the bairns would 
be better with me?” 

“ Nay,” said Charteris, hastily, “ except in so far as this house 
of yours, Mr. Muir, is certainly a most pleasant contrast to the din 
and haste of Glasgow, and your nieces, you know, like your young 
friends yonder, are of kiu to spring.” 

The old man had seated himself in his easy-cliair, which Cutli- 
bert would not take. He took off his spectacles to wipe them with 
his handkerchief, and shook his head. ‘‘ There is Rose, to be sure, 
and little Lettie; but my niece, Martha, Mr. Charteris — well, I can 
not tell— the spring may come to her yet after the summer has 
passed. I would not put the bondage of common use about Martha, 
for the like of me is little able to judge the like of her. It is a hard 
thing to understand. It might have been a question in the days of 
the auld philosophy— what for the mind that would have served a 
conqueror should be put into her — a mind that can ill bow to the 
present yoke— when there is even too much nejd of such in high 
places. It will be clear enough some time — but it has aye been a 
wonder to me.” 

“ There may be difficulties in her way to conquer, more hopeless 
than kingdoms,” said Cuthbert involuntarily. 

“ Young man, do you ken of any evil tidings,” asked Alexander 
Muir, with sudden haste and energy. 

” Nothing, nothing,” said Cuthbert, annoyed at himself for speak- 
ing words from which inferences so painful could be drawn. “ You 
must hear my special mission to Ayr, Mr. Muir. Your niece has 
told me that the name of her grandmother was Allenders— it is an 
unusual name. Could you give me any information about the 
family?” 

The old man looked considerably surprised. ” Thev were 
strangers here,” he said. “ 1 mind of Mrs. Calder, very well! whose 
daughter Violet married Janies Muir, my brother. He was ten years 
younger than me, and so I mind of his good mother, though she 
died long ago. They came from London, Mr. Charteris. There 


HARRY MUIR. 53 

was a father and two daughters in the family. I will let you see all 
that remains of them— their grave.” 

” And are there no papers— no way of tracing the family to their 
origin?” said Cuthbert, with some uneasiuess. 

“ We have never thought it of any importance,” said the old 
man, smiling; “ it it is, we may fall on some means, may be. It 
sharpens folk’s wits to have something to find out— but what de- 
pends on it, Mr. Charteris.” 

“ 1 have said nothing of it to our friends in Glasgow— fearing 
that the name might have misled me,” said Cuthbert; “ hut there 
is, I am glad to tell you, an estate depending upon it — not a great 
one, Mr. Muir — a comfortable small estate, producing some four 
hundred pounds a year.” 

Cuthbert wanted to be rather under than over the mark— four 
hundred pounds a year! the sum was princely and magnificent to 
the astonished old man. He looked at Cuthbert in a mist of bewil- 
derment. *He took oft his spectacles and wiped their glasses again. 
He put up his hand to his head, and rubbed his forehead in con- 
tused amazement. “ Four hundred pounds a year!” 

“ So far as L have gone yet, it seems almost certain that your 
nephew is the heir, ” said Cuthbert. “The surname of itself is 
much, and the Christian names confirm its evidence - very strongly. 
It you think there can be anything done to trace the origin of these 
Allenders. 1 should be glad to proceed to it at once.” 

The old man had bowed down his head — he was fumbling now 
with nerveless fingers at his glasses, and suddenly he raised the 
handkerchief with which he had been wiping them, up to his eyes. 
Some sounds, Cuthbert heard, like one or two bioken irrepressible 
sobs, “ For Harry— for the unstable callaut — the Lord’s grace to 
save him from temptation— that 1 should live to see this hope!” 

The short broken sobs continued for a moment, and then he 
raised his head. “1 see, sir,” said the old man, with natural 
dignity, “ that to thank you for troubling yourself in this way, w ith 
the humble concerns of tnese orphans, who can render you little in 
return, would be to hold you in less esteem than is your due. 1 
take your service, as, if 1 had been as young and well endowed as 
you, I think 1 could may be have rendered il —and now tell me what 
it is you want to discover— that 1 may further it, if I can, without 
delay.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

“ What! mine own boy?” 

Almost in Lindsay’s words, Cuthbert told to the old man the 
story of the Allenders. Ha listened without making any remark, 
but evidently, as Cuthbert saw, with great attention. 

“ John Allenders — yes, that was the name,” he said, when his 
visitor had concluded. “ And Yiolet and Rose — it looks like— very 
like, as if these bairns were the folk you seek. 1 pray Heaven they 
may; no for the siller,” continued the old man, turning back on 
his way to the pin where bung his low broad-brimmed hat: “no 
alone or even specially for the siller; but for other matters, Mr. 


HARRY MUIR. 



Charteris — other things ot more concern to Martha and me, and the 
nst ot them, too, poor things, than silver and gold; though no 
doubt an honoiable maintenance, no to say a grand independence 
like that, is to be thankfully received for itself, it we would not sin 
our mercies— and now, sir, 1 am ready.” 

Cliaiteris followed without any question. 

The old man turned first to the garden door, and looked out. His 
young guests had slackened a little in their industry; one ot them 
sat solemnly in the arm-chair reading with great emphasis from 
the book be bad left. Another had thrown down her work ta 
arrange in elaborate braids a favorite companion’s Lair; and two or 
three other groups, with their heads close together, were discussing 
“the gentleman”; and what could possibly te his errand with 
IMaister Meur. “ Bairns,” said the old man, looking out smiling- 
ly. With a sudden start the girls resumed their work, the occupant 
of the arm-chair threw down the book in great baste, and fled to 
her own seat. 

“ The book will do ye no barm; ye may read it out loud, one at 
a time,” said the gracious patron of the young embroiderers; “ but 
see that you do not forget what work must be done, or make me 
forsworn ot my word, when I promised to see ye keep from idle- 
ness. Mind!* or we will cast out the morn.” 

Saying which, llie old man turned to the street door, directing his 
little Jessie, as he passed the kitchen, to have tea prepared with 
some ornamental additions to its ordinar}' bread and butter, which 
he specified in a whisper, exactly at six o’clock. 

“And 1 have a spare room that y'm are most kindly welcome to, 
if ye can put up with my small accommodations, Mr. Charteris,”' 
said the master of the little bouse as they passed into the street; 
“ but I see you are for asking where we are to go There is one 
person in the town that may veiy likely help us, 1 think. She was 
aunt to my sister-in-law that’s now departed, and knew all about 
the Allenders. She is an old woman. I would not say but she has 
the better ot me by twenty years; but she’s sharper at worldly busi- 
ness yet, than many folk in their prime. She has some bits of 
property and money saved that will come to the bairns no doubt 
some time, but the now slie holds afiim grip, and is jealous of re- 
spect on the head ot it. 1 will lake it kind if 3 T e will just grant her 
the bit little ceremony that has grown a necessity to bet, Mr. 
Charteris. She is an aged woman, and it does not set youth ill to 
honor even the whims of gray hairs.” 

“ l shall be very careful,” said Cuthbsrt with a smile, for he did 
not think it needful to add that^he was a very unlikely person to 
show any want of courtesy to the* aged or the weak. 

They walked through the town somewhat slowly, for the old man 
paused new and then to point out with Pennine pride and affection 
the notable things they passed. The polemic Brigs, the Wallace 
tower. Ilis mild gray eye kindled as he reminded his visitor that 
this was doubly classic ground — the land ot Wallace, and of Burns 
— of the old traditional hero whose mighty torm looms over liis 
country stfll, and ot the unhappy poet wiioin the poor of Scotland 
cherish in their hearts. 

Alexander Muir was one of those whose end of life seems almost 


HARRY MUIR. 


55 


as pure as its beginning. A. spirit so blameless and placid, that we 
might almost think it had only been sent here, because it is a greater 
joy to be a man, and know by certain experiment the wonderful 
mystery of redemption, than to he satisfied with such knowledge as 
the sinless in heaven can gain, it is happy for us, amid the dark 
records of common lives, that here and there God permits us one 
such man, born to be purer than his fellows; so much lower than 
the angels that the taint of native sin has come with him into the 
world — so much higher than they, that the mantle of the Lord has 
fallen upon him, and that he stands accepted in a holiness achieved 
by the Master and Kins of all. Lichened over with the moss of age, 
in quiet places here and there live gtaeioussDuls of this happy class, 
and Alexander Muir was one. 

But very human was the pure unworldly spirit, deeply learned in 
the antiquities of the country, with which his very life seemed 
woven. Happily proud of all its fame and all its great men, and 
interested even in its prejudices, there could have been found no- 
where a guide more pleasant. Cuthbert and he insensibly began to 
use the language of intimates — to feel themselves old friends; and 
when the children in the streets came forward to pull the old man’s 
skirts, and solicit his notice, the young one. impatient at first of the 
delay, became soon so much interested in the universal acquaint- 
anceship of his cheerful companion, as to linger well pleased where 
he chose to linger. Almost every one who met them had a recog- 
nition respectful and kindly for Uncle Sandy, iiis passage through 
the street was a progress. 

“ But we are putting off our time,” said Uncle Sandy at last. 

This way, Mr. Charteris.” 

They were then in the outskirts of the town; before a two-story 
house, of smaller pi''p°Uions than his own, the old man at last con- 
cluded his walk. The door stood open, and the sanded passage 
leading to a flight of stone stalls, floury and white with “ cam- 
stane,’’ proclaimed the house to have more occupants than one. A 
door opening into this passage gave them a glimpse of a family 
apartment, where the mother stood at an ample tub washing, while 
children of all sizes overflowed the limits of the moderately clean 
kitchen. This woman Mr. Muir addrested kindly, inquiring after 
her exuberant family first, and then foi Miss Jean. 

“ On, ay, there’s naething ails her,” was the answer, given not 
without some seeming til-humor. “ 1 was paying her the rent } T es- 
treen. She’s glegger about, siller now than ever I was a’ my days; 
and as for gieing a bawbee to a wean, or an hour s mercy to a puir 
body ye micht as weel move the heart o’ a whinstane; no that 
we’re needing ony o’ her charity. 1 have a guid man to woik for 
me. that has been even on seven year wi’ ae maister, and there’s no 
rnonv could say that; but it’s awfu’ to see an auld body wi’ such a 
grip o’ the world.” 

Leaviuo- Miss Jean’s tenant, operating with angry energy upon 
the garments in her hands, they proceeded up the camstaned stair 
to the door of Miss Jean’s own habitation. A very small girl, 
dressed in a remote and far-away fashion, with a thick cap covering 
her short-cut liair, admitted them, recoguiziug the old man with a 


HARRY MUIR. 


56 

smile of evident pleasure, and looking with a little alarm at liis com- 
panion. 

“ You will tell Miss Jean it’s me, Katie, and a stranger gentle- 
man I’ve brought to see her,” said Uncle Sandy; ” and when is she 
to let vou home to see your mother?” 

“ Whisht,” said the little girl in a whisper; “ she’ll hear. She’ll 
no let me at a’. Oh, if you would speak to her, uncle!” 

“ So 1 will, Katie, my woman,” said the old man kiudly, patting 
the head of the little drudge as she showed them in a front room: 
“ and mind you and be a good bairn in the meantime, and dinna be 
ill to her, even it she is ill to you: and now you must tell Miss 
Jean.” 

The child lingered a moment. “ If ye please, uncle— may oe she’ll 
no let me speak to you after— is Lettie ever coming back again?” 

“ May be, my dear; there’s no saying,” said Unole Sandy. “ I 
will try if she can come to see you, or may be I will lake you to see 
her; but, Katie, my woman, you must tell Miss Jean.” 

The little girl went away with a lighter step. ” She is a far away 
cousin,” said the old man, “ a fatherless bairn, poor thing, needing 
whiles to eat bitter bread; if our bairns come to their kingdom they 
must take Katie Calder. I think the blood is warmer on our side 
of the house; any way none of them will grudge the bit lassie her 
upbringing.” 

Miss Jean Calder’s best room was lurnished with a set of old 
lugubrious mahogany chairs, and a solemn four-posted bedstead, 
with terrible curtains of heavy dark moreen. Neither the bed nor the 
room were ever used, the other apartment serving all purposes of 
kitchen, parlor, and sleeping- room to its aged mistress and lmr little 
handmaiden. They could hear sounds of some little commotion in 
ii, as they sat down to wait. Miss Jean had preparations to make 
before she could receive visitors. 

At last, having completed these.she entered the room. She was a 
tall and veiy meager old woman, with very false black hair 
smoothed over the ashy wrinkled brow of extreme age, and a dirty 
cap of white net, hastily substituted for the flannel one in which she 
had been sitting by the fireside in the other room; an old, dingy, 
much wom shawl and a rustling black silk apron covered the 
short-comings of her dress; but underneath the puckers of her eye- 
lids, keen, sharp, frosty eyes of blue looked out with undiminished 
vision; and but for tlie pinched and grasping expression which 
seemed to have settled down upon them, there would have been in- 
telligence still in the withered features, which once, too, had had 
their share of beauty. Some one says prettily that Nature, in learn- 
ing to make the lily, turned out the convolvulus. One may trace 
something like this in the character of a family a« it descends from 
one generation to another, as if, the idea of a peculiar creation once 
taken up, experiments were made upon the race, and gradations of 
the mind to be produced, were thrown, first into one position and 
then another, until the climax was put upon them all by the one 
commanding spirit in which the design was perfected. It is not 
uncommon. Miss Jean Calder was a lesser and narrower example 
of the mind of Martha M_uir; eager in her young days to raise her- 
self above her comrades, she had repelled with disdain the neigh- 


HARRY MUIP 


57 

bors’ sons, who admired her; while yet she resented bitterly the 
neglect with which her honest woers avenged themselves afterward 
for her disdain. Then the selfish, fiery, proud woman began with 
firm industry to make a permanent provision for herself; and from 
that early period jntil about two years before this time, she had 
toiled early and late, like the poorest of laboring men. All that 
might have been generous and lofty —if there ever was such admix- 
ture in the ambition and pride of her youth— had evaporated long 
ago; a tyrant of unbending will in her small dominion — a hard, 
grasping, pitiless creditor to the miserable tenants who happened to 
be in her power — an unhappy spirit, clinging to the saddest dross of 
worldliness, she had become. 

A sad object— but yet standing, to the mind of Martha Muir— if 
we may venture so to speak of the work of Him who creates all — 
in the relation of a study to a great painting— a model to a finished 
statue, 

“ Good-morning to ye, Alexander Muir,” said Miss Jean; “ who’s 
this ye’ve brought in your hind?” 

“ The gentleman is from Edinburgh. Miss Jean,” said Alexander. 
“ He is a triend of Harry’s, and has been kind to him, as most folk 
are, indeed, who ken the lad.” 

“ 1 tell ye, Saudy, yt have made a f nil of that boy,” said the old 
woman harshly; ” a wastertul spendthrift lad that would throw 
away every bawbee that he had, and mair, that he hasna; but he 
neerina look to sorn on me if he ever comes to want. 1 have nae 
mair than I can do wi’ mysei: and where’s my twenty shillings, 
guid white monie, that 1 gied to fit him out?” 

“ lie will pay it back some day, no fear,” said Alexander, “ tor 
1 hear from this gentleman that Harry is like to prosper, poor man, 
and no doubt he will mind his friends, Miss Jean. The gentleman 
has been speaking to me of your guid sister, John Cakler’s* wife. 
He thinks he kens some good friends she had. Did you ever hear 
what part that family came from?” 

“ Ay, good friends? where are they? what’s like to come o’t?” 
said Miss Jean, fixing the frosty eyes, whose keen light contrasted 
so strangely with her ashy wrinkled face, on Cuthbert. 

“lean not tell,” said Cuthbert, warily; “it depends entirely 
upon what relationship 1 may discover— but it may be good for 
those who were kind to the Allenders, Miss Caider, if 1 find that 
the} r were relatives of the family 1 suppose.” 

“ Kind to the Allenders? Do ye ken. lad, that it was my mother 
took then in, when their father died, and the poor things liadna a 
mortal to look after them? — kind to the AJleuders, said he?— weel, 
well— puir bairns, they’re baitli gane.” 

Something human crossed the sharp, pinched, selfish face— even 
in this degraded spirit, there was a memory of the fragrant far-away 
youth. 

“ And Mr. Charteris,” said Alexander Muir, “ would like to ken 
where they came from, Miss Jean— it is weel kent how good ye 
were lo the orphans— 1 am meaning your mother — and no doubt 
you ken better about them than indifferent folk; — that was the way 
I troubled you, and brought Mr. Charteris this length.” 

“ Wha’s Mr. Charteris?” 


58 


HARRY MUIR. 


“ It’s the gentleman,” said the old man simply. 

‘•If they left any papers,” interposed Cullibert, ‘‘or books, or 
any relics indeed from which we might discover their origin— I 
should feel it a great obligation, Miss Calder, if you would assist 
me to tTace it.” 

“Obligation! 1 have little broo of obligation,” said the old 
woman with a grating laugh, mingled of harskuess and imbecility. 
“ 1 have seen ower mony folk that 1 obliged slip away out of my 
hand like a knotless thread; but is there anything like to come of 
it? 1 dinna ken this stranger lad— 1 can put trust m you, Alexan- 
der Muir— that is in what you say, ye ken ’ 

“ Well. Miss Jean, it depends upon what the gentleman finds- 
out,” said the old man, a little proud of his tactics, and marveling 
within himself at his own address; “ if he can be satisfied by means 
of any papers or books or such like— 1 believe something good may 
come of it.” 

The old woman wavered. “ It’s a hantle trouble,” she said, “ to 
put a frail woman like me to, that have but a little monkey of a 
lassie to help me in the house,— but there is a kist ben yonder in 
below the bed— and there may be some bits of things in it — I dinna 
ken — but neither her nor me are fit to pull it out.” 

“ Can I help?” said Outhbert, hurriedly. 

“ Ye’re unco ready wi’ your offer, lad,” said Miss Jean, grimly; 
“ it’s no for love o’ the wark, I judge, wi’ time bit white lassie’s 
fingers — look at mine,” and she extended a long shriveled hand, 
armed like the claws of a bird; “ na, na, I ken naetliing about you 
—but if Katie and you can manage it, Sandy Muir— and she’s a 
fusionless brat, no worth the half of the meat she eats —I’ll be nae 
hindrance — ye can try.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“ Oh, lean and covetous old age!— a winter unblessed, that blights where'er it 
touches.” 

Alexander Muir instantly proceeded in great haste to the 
kitchen, whither Miss Jean suspiciously followed him. In a few 
minutes Cuthbert heard “ the kist ” making audible progress — and 
a very short time after, the old man call d him out to the passage, 
between the two rooms, whither they had dragged it. 

“ Ye’re giving yoursel a hantle fash wi’ a tiling that can never do 
you ony good, Sandy,” said Miss Jean tauntingly, “ tor the Allen- 
ders were nae connection to you, even though Viob*t Calder did 
marry your brother Jamie. Weel I wat she would have been better 
wanting him. It’s a bonnie story when it’s felled— a woman to live 
as lang as fifty year, and syne to die because her man dies— auld 
taupie! when she might have been to the fore to have a share of the 
benefit, if there is to be ony benefit — what ailed the fail to dee?” 

“ Poor woman, she would have been blithe to remain, for the 
bairns’ sakes,” said the old man, gently, “if it had not been other- 
wise ordained,” 

“ Weel, there’s the fewer to pairt it among, if onything comes o’ 
this,” said the miser. “ Ye maun just stand back awee, my man. 


HARRY MUIR. 


59 

1 dinna open a’ my posies afore fremdlolk; and ye’re no to think 
the Allenders left as tnuckle behind them, elaithes and a’tbegithei 
as would fill the halt o’ that ki«t. What there is, I’ll biing ye, but 
I'll hue uae stranger meddling wi’ my gear.” 

Cuthbert withdrew a3 he was ordertd, to the door of the *‘ best 
room.” The chest was a large one, painted a dull brown color, and 
judging from its broken lock, contained nothing of any value. The 
old woman ra sed the lid. and dived into a wilderness of lumber, 
faded worn-out cobweb like garments, long ago unfit for use, but 
preserved nevertheless on the penurious principle of throwing n oil- 
ing away. After long fishing among these relies of ancient ^finery, 
Miss Jean at last produced from the very bottom of the abyss, a 
small quarto Bible in a dark decayed binding, much worn at the 
corners. “Here!” she said, abruptly, handing it to Cuthhert, ‘‘ye 
can look at that, and i’ll see if there’s ony mair— there should be 
some papers in the shottle. ” 

Cuthbert hastily returned to the window to examine the book; 
on the fly-leaf was written simply the name of John Allenders, a 
remote date, and a text. It gave no further clew to its owner’s 
identity. 

“ Have ye gotten onytliing, Mr. Charteris?” asked anxiously the 
old man at his side. Cuthbert could only shake his head as he 
turned over the dark old pages and looked for further information 
in vain. 

The Bible contained, as all Bibles do in Scotland, the metrical 
version of psalms sanctioned by the kirk, aud between the end of 
the New Testament and the beginning of these, it is customary to 
have the family register of birihs aud deaibs. Cuthbert turned 
hastily to this place; at first he concluded there was no entry, but 
on further examination, he found that two leaves had been pasted 
together, and that on the outer side of one something was written. 
He looked at it: 44 Behold, 1 take away from thee the desire of thine 
eyes with a stroke,” was the melancholy inscription; and the hand- 
writing was stiff and painful and elaborate, most like the hand of 
bitter grief. There were misiakes too and slips of the mournful 
pen. Cuthbert felt it move him greatly — so si range it seemed to 
see the mark of the faltering hasty fingers, which so long ago were 
at rest torever. 

One of the leaves had been a good deal torn in a vain endeavor to 
open this sealed record. Cuthbert feeling himself growing excited 
and anxious, with the vvished-for eviilence so very near him. made 
other attempts which were as unsuccessful. The dead man had 
shut up the chronicle of his happier days that he might not see it 
in his desolation, and the jealous grief seemed to linger about it as 
its guardian still. 

Cuthbert held it up to the light and endeavored to read through, 
but with as little success as before. Alexander Muir had been 
watching hirn anxiously There was a glass of water on the table, 
which Katie had brought for him; the old man wet his handker- 
chief, and with trembling bands spread it upon ihe hidden page. 

” 1 dinna ken what a’ thae papers are,” said Miss Jean, entering 
with a bundle of yellow letters tied together with a strip of old linen 


60 


HARRY MUIR. 


as yellow as themselves, “ hut there’s nae secrets in them, ye may 
look over them as ye like, "W bat are ye doin’ to the book?” 

“ There’s something written here,” said the old man, endeavor- 
ing vainly to conceal his anxiety. 

“ Ane wad think there was a fortune coming to you , Sandy 
Muir,” said Miss Jean; '* ye’re onco anxious to bring profit to other 
folk.” 

“ 1 aye wished weel to my neighbors,” said Alexander, meekly, 
and with a little self-reproach. He felt as if it were almost selfish 
to be so anxious about bis nephew’s fortune. 

In the meantime Outlibert untied the string, and as the too jealous 
gum showed yet no indication of yielding, began to look over the 
papers. The first that came to his hands, evidently added by Miss- 
Jean to the original heap, and ostentatiously displayed on the top, 
was an account for the funeral expenses of John Allenders, m 
which Mis. Calder appeared debtor to William Lochhead, under- 
taker; unfortunately Miss Jean had not observed the rigid honesty 
with which it was indorsed in a very cramped female hand, “ Paid 
by me, out of the notes left by John Allenders for his burial, leaving 
a balance of three pounds and a penny hall penny for the behoof of 
Rose and Violet. Signed — Marget Calder.” 

Other tantalizing bits of writing were below this; a child’s note 
signed Violet, and addressed to the father in some temporary ab- 
sence from home, telling how Rose had begun to “ flow T er ” a collar, 
and how the writer herself had bought seeds with her sixpence for 
Mrs. Calder’s garden. Another bit of paper contained a list, in a 
hand more formed, of different articles of “ flowering,” received 
from some warehouse. Then there were school accounts, tor the 
girls, of a still earlier date, and at last Cuthbei! came to a letter 
bearing the postmark of London and Stirling. He opened it in 
haste. It was a letter of commonplace condolence, beginning, ** My 
dear sir,” and suggesting the ordinary kind of consolation for the 
loss of ” my dear departed sister,” and was signed by ” Daniel 
Scott.” Lindsay had not mentioned the surname of the wife of 
John Allenders — this letter was evidently from her brother. 

Cutlibert went on with great anxiety, and very considerable ex- 
citement, just glancing up to see that the softening process carried 
on by Alexander Muir had not yet produced much effect, and taking 
no part in the conversation. The next letter in the bundle was in 
the same hand, and in its substance little more interesting; but its 
postscript brought a flush of satisfaction to Cuthbert’s eager face. 

“ I hear that your father is but weakly,” wrote the matter-of-fact 
Daniel, “ and your brother Gilbert being dead two months ago. as 
you were informed, has sent tor Walter— that’s the captain — home. 
If you were asking my opinion, 1 would say you should certainly 
come hack to he at hand whatever might happen; for when once 
trouble comes into a family, there is no saying where it may end; 
and, after your father, and Walter, and Robert, there is no doubt 
that you are the right heir.” 

This letter had been torn up as if in indignation of the cold- 
blooded counsel. Cutlibert laid it aside as a link in the chain which 
he had to form. 


HARRY MUIR. 


61 


“ I’ll no have the book destroyed wi’ weet. 1 tell ye, 1 winna, 
Sandy Muir,” said Miss Jean, extending her lean brown hand. 

“ Let it abee wi’ your napkin. 1 wonder that the like o’ you, that 
pretends to be better than your neighbors, could gie such usage to 
the Scripture. Think shame o’ voursel’, man; and be done wi” 
your slaistering.” 

The old man thrust her hand away with less than his usual mild- 
ness. ‘‘Have patience a moment— just have patience. See, Mr. 
Charteris, see!” 

Cuthbert rose — the leaves cnme slowly separate — and there in this 
simple record was all he sought. 

“ John Allenders, w'riter, tourth son of Gilbert A1 lenders, of 
Allenders, married, on the first day ot March, 1769, to Rose Scott, 
daughter ol Thomas Scott, builder, Stirling.” 

Cuthbert laid down the book on the table, and, extending his 
hand, took the somew'hat reluctant one ot the anxious old man, and 
shook it heartily. “ It's all right,” said Cuthbert, swinging the 
arm of uncle Sandy in unusual exhilaration. “ It’s all right. 1 
have nothing to do but congratulate you, and get up the proof. 1 
thought we would find it, and here it. is as clear as daylight. It’s 
all exactly as it should be.” 

‘‘What is right? what’s the lad’s meaning?” said Miss Jean, 
thrusting herself in between them; ‘‘ and 'what are ye shaking 
hands wi’ that foolish body Sandy Muir lor, when it’s me that ony 
thing belonging to the Allenders should justly come to? We keepit 
them here in our ain house; we gied the auld man decent burial as 
ye would see, and it’s out ot my book ye have gotten a’ ye ken. 
VVlrat does the man mean shaking hands wi’ Sandy Muir?” 

“ It’s no for me — it’s tor the bairns— it’s for Harry,” said Alex- 
ander. 

“ Hairy! and what has Hairy to do wi’t, 1 would like to ken? 
He’s but a far-away friend; forbye being a prodigal, that it w'ad be 
a shame to trust, guid siller wi’— Hairy! — the man’s daft! what has 
he to do with John Allenders?” 

“ A little,” said Cuthbert, smiling. ‘‘ He is the heir of John 
Allenders, Miss Calder.” 

“ The heir!” the old woman’s face grew red with anger. “ 1 tell 
ye he had nae lawful heir, if it binna the aue surviving that did 
him kindness. It’s you that disna ken. Hairy Muir is but niece’s 
son to me.” 

‘‘But he is grandson to Rose Allenders,” said Cuthbert, “ and 
the heir of her father.” 

Miss Jean stood still for a moment, digesting the strange purport 
of those words; at last sfie stretched forward her hand to clutch the 
Bible. “ The book’s mine -ye ken nocht but what ye have gotten 
out of my book — gie it back to me, ye deceivers. Am 1 gaun to 
gie my goods, tliink ye, to belter Hairy Muir? Ha, na— ye have 
come to the wiang hand; gie me hack my book.” 

“ There is some pioperty in the case',” said Cuthbert, keeping his 
hand upon the Bible. “ It can not come to you. Miss Jean; for, 
though 1 believe jou were verv kind to them, you are not related 
to John Allenders; but Harry Muir is. How, whether would it be 


62 


HARRY MUIR. 


better that this property should go to a stranger, or to your nephew 
who is in your debt?” 

Miss Jean had been eager to interrupt him, but his last words 
were a weighty utterance. She paused 10 consider. ‘‘Ye’re a 
clever chield,” she said at last, with a harsh laugh. “ I wadna say 
but ye could put a case gey weel. My nephew that’s in my de t— 
and so he is, that’s true— what kind o’ property is’t? ye’ll be a 
writer I reckon?” 

“ Yes,” said Cuthbert, with a smile, ‘‘lam a writer. It is some 
land — a small estate. Miss Jean; but only one who is a descendant 
ot John Alleuders can be the heir, and that is Harry Muir.” 

“ Weel, 1 take ye to witness that what ye have said is true,” said 
the old woman eagerly; “ that this lad is in my debt; and payment 
I’ll hae before he bruiKs the possession a week. Wasna it out of iny 
book ye got a' ye keu? and wha has sae muckle claim to considera- 
tion as me? 1 take ye to witness; and you, ye auld sneck drawer — it 
was this ye was lliinaing about a’ the time? Oh, Sandy Muir ! me, 
in my innocence, thinking ye were taking this pains to do me a 
gtrid turn; as ye’re awn me a day in harst, a’body kens; and you 
thinking o’ yoursel’ a’ the time, i wonder ye can have the face to 
look at me!” 

“ 1 am seeking nothing for mysel’, Miss Jean,” said Alexander, 
with a litile pride; “ the little I have will soon go to the bairns, as 
this will do. And 1 am thankful to say 1 owe ye nothing, it it be 
not in lire way of good will.” 

“ Guid will, said he! bomiie guld will to take a braw inheritance 
out frae under my verj r een,” said the qld woman, bitterly. “I 
baud ye bound for the value ot that hook, Sandy Muir, mind. I’ll 
baud ye bound and you. too, my draw lad; sae if ye tak it away 
the noo ye sail bring it back again, or it will be a’ the waur tor 
yoursel’s. Mind what 1 say; I’ll hae my goods spoiled and my gear 
lifted tor nae man in this world.” 

Cuthbert promised, with all reverence, to restore the Bible, which 
he had considerable fears he would not be peimitted to take away; 
and after they had soothed, so far as possible, her bitter humor, 
Miss Jean, with as much courtesy as she was capble of, suffered 
them, rich in these precious documents, to depart. 

“ I’ll m> can speak to Miss Jean to day, Katie,” whispered Uncle 
Sandy, as the little girl stole after them down stairs; “ but keep you 
a, good heart, my bonnie woman, there’s blythe days coining — and 
may be I’ll take ye to see your mother myself.” 

‘‘ Are vou sure this will do, Mr. Charteris?” continued the old 
maD, when they were again on their way to the town. 

Cuthbert was in great spirits. “ 1 will astonish Davie Lindsay,” 
he said, smiling. ‘‘Oh yes, it will do, it was just the thing 1 
wanted. Now we must have the register ot the different marriages 
and births; that part of it will be easily managed, I fancy.” 

“ My brother James’ Family Bible is in my house,” said Uncle 
tSandy, ‘‘and lie was married by Mr. Clunie, of I he Old Kirk. I 
will go to the session cierk to night, it you like, or it will be time 
enougir the morn. He is never tar oui of the way, being an old 
man like myself, half idle, half independent. And, speaking of 


HARRY MUIR. 63 

that, ye must sec my garden, Mr. Charter is. though this is hardly 
the best time/’ 

“ You seem to keen it in excellent order,” said Cuthbert. 

“ It’s no had: you see, Mr. Charteris, the house is mj own, and 
so is it,” said the old man, with a little natural pride, desiring to 
intimate that the substance was not altogether on the Colder side 
of Harry’s ancestry; ** and it is just a p ensure to me to dibble at it 
in mv own way. Indeed I think sometimes that it’s this work of 
mine, and the pleasure ot seeing the new life aye coming up through 
the soil, that makes me like the bairns so well.” 

“ It has not always so pleasant a result,” said Charteris. 

“Mostly, 1 think, mostly,” said Alexander. “For example, 
now, how could ye think a man that had such thoughts in his 
heart to a mouse or a gowan, as Burns had, could harm or be un- 
kindly to the bits of buds of his own race; though to be sure I am 
not minding what a strong part evil had in that grand earthen 
vessel. Woe’s me! that what might have been a great light in the 
land should be bill a beacon on the black rocks; but I never mind 
that when l read the Cottar.” 

“ The Cottar is your favorite, 1 think,” said Charteris. 

“ Ay — I confess 1 like them all, ill as some of them are,” said the 
poet’s countryman; “but the Cottar is near perfect to my vision — 
all but one place, where be puts in an apostrophe that breaks the 
story— i hat about * Sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth ’—you mind? 
1 aye skip that. He kent ill ower weel, poor man.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Here hath been dawning 
Another blue day. 

Carlyle. 

The next morning, Cuthbert busied himself in obtaining ex- 
tracts from registers. The proof he procured was very full and 
clear, establishing the legal as well as the moral certainty. 

That day the family at Port Dundas were pursuing their ordinary 
employments with a greater hush and stillness about them than 
usual ; Mattha and Rose sat together, sewing in the parlor. They 
were both very silent — in the exhaustion of hopelessness, afraid to 
speak to each other ot the one great subject which absorbed their 
thoughts. Agnes had gone wilii her baby in her arms to the 
kitclT n to speak to Mrs. Rodger, and was lingering there a little, 
willing to be delivered from herself; while Violet had carried out a 
little wondering preoccupied heart into the midst of a juvenile as- 
sembly in front ot the house, and was gradually awaking out of ab- 
straction into vigorous play. 

The prospect was very cheerful from the window. Yonder lit- 
tle Maggie McGilhvray, with unfailing industry, clipped and sung 
at her mother's door under the full sunshine of noon; and here, 
upon the pavement, the little form of Violet, poised on one foot, 
pursued the marble “ pitcher ” through the chalked “ beds ’’ neces- 
sary for the game, while her playmates stood round watching lest 
she should infringe its rules, and Mrs. McGarvie’s tawny truculent 


‘64 


HARRY MUIR. 


Tiger winked in the sunshine as he sat complacently looking on. 
The very din of traffic in the busy street was cheering and life-like; 
but the two sisters sat with their little musin curtain drawn, sick 
at heart. 

At the window in the kitchen Miss Aggie Rodger stretched her 
considerable length upon the deal table, while the hapless idle John- 
nie occupied his usual chair by the fireside, and Miss Jeanie in a 
dress a little, and only a little, better arranged than her sister, sat on 
the woodeu stool near her, very prim and very busy. Miss Aggie 
had laid down her work, and from the table was making desperate 
lunges at the crowing baby. 

In a dingy printed gown, girded round her waist by an apron pro- 
fessedly white, but as dingy as the print, and with a broad black 
ribbon tying down her widow’s cap, Mrs. Rodger stood convers- 
ing with the lodger. “ This is Thursday,” said Agnes, “ by the end 
of "next w T eek, Mrs. Rodger, 1 shall be ready with the rent ” 

‘‘Very weel, Mrs. Muir,” responded the widow, ‘‘what suits 
you will suit me. It’s a new thing to me, 1 assure you, to be need- 
ing to seek siller. When Archie was to the fore — and a guid man 
he was to me, and a guid Jather to the weans — I never ance thought 
of such a needcessity as this; but ane maun submit to wliat’s im- 
posed; and tliea there’s thae w r earifu’ taxes, and gas, and water. I 
declare it’s enough to pit folk datt— nae suner ae body’s turned 
frae tlie door than anither chaps— it’s just an even down imposi- 
tion.” 

“ Look at the pet. Luick, see! eh! ye wee rogue, will ye break 
my side comb?” cried Miss Aggie, shaking the baby with furious 
affection, from which the young mother shrunk a little. 

“ Dinna be sae wild, Aggie,” said her prim sister. ” Ye’ll 
frighten the wean.” 

” Never you fash your head, JeaD. Are ye there, ye wee pet? 
Eh, it he hasna prtten his finger through yin o’ the holes!” 

Miss Aggie hurriedly snatched up her work, and the little wife 
drew away the baby in alarm. ” Has he done much harm?” asked 
Agnes; ” give it me, and 1 will put it in again.” 

” It’s nane the waur,” said the good-humored hoyden, cutting 
out the injured ” hole ” with her scissors. ” I'll put it in with a 
stitch of point— it’s nae size. Jean’s at a new stitch, Mrs. Muir— 
did ye ever see it?” 

‘‘It’s rather a pretty thing,” said Miss Jeanie, exhibiting it with 
prim complacence. ” 1 learned it from Beenie lire, at the ware- 
house, and it ’s no ill to do. 1 was thinking, of coming ben, to show 
Miss. Rose; but it’s no everybody that Beenie would have learned 
it to.” 

“ W ha’s that at the outer door?” asked the idle brother, whose 
lisl less unoccupied life had made him quick to note all passing 
sounds. a 

“ Losh me!” said Miss Aggie, looking up, “ it’s Mr. Muir, and 
he’s in an awfu’ hurry.” 

Agnes ran to the open door. It was indeed Harry, and the face 
ot. pale excitement which he turned upon her, struck the poor wife 
to the heart. Little Violet ran up the stair after him, with eauer 


65 


HARRY MUIR. 


curiosity. There was a.sullenness, quite unusual to it, on the color- 
less tace of poor Harry. He passed his wife without saying a word. 

“ Are you ill? what brings you home at this time? what is the 
matter, Harry?” cried the terrified Agnes. 

He only pressed before her into the sitting-room. 

As Harry entered, with Agnes and little Violet close behind him, 
Ihe two melancholy workers in the parlor started in paintul sur- 
prise. “ Harry is ill l” exclaimed Hose, with the constant instinct 
of apology, and she threw down her work on the table. 

“ What now, Harry? what new misfortune has come upon us 
now?” asked the sterner voice of Martha. . 

“ Harry, what is it? what ails you?” said poor Agnes, clinging 


to his arm. , , . . , 

He took off his hat, and began to press it between his hands. 
“Agnes, Martha,” said the young man with a husky dry voice, 
it’s not my fault— not this time— I’ve lost my situation.” 

The little wife uttered a low cry, and looked at him and the 
foaoy. Lost his situation 1 the sole means of getting them bread. 

“ What do you mean, Harry?” asked Martha. 

The young man’s sullen, despairing eye glanced round them all. 
Then he flung his hat on the table, and threw himself into the arm- 
chair. “ 1 mean that, that’s all. I’ve lost my situation ” 

for a moment they stood still, looking in each other s blank 
laces as people do at the first stroke of a calamity ; then Agnes put the 
baby into the aims of Rose, and herself glided round to the back of 
her husband’s chair. She could not bear to see him cast himself 
down so, and hide his face in his hands. Her own eyes were half 
blinded with tears, and her gentle heart failing; but however she 
might suffer herself, she could not see Harry so utterly cast down. 

Violet stole again to the stool at his feet, and sat looking up m 
his face with the breathless interest of her years. Poor Agnes tried 
to draw away the hands from his face. He resisted her fretfully. 
Rose went softly about the room with the child, hushing its baby 
glee, and turning tearful eyes on Harry; but Martha stood, tixed as 
she had risen on his entrance, her hands firmly grasping the back 
of her chair, and her head bowed down. 

The tears of poor Agnes were falling upon his clasped fingers. 
Hastily the unfortunate young man uncovered his face. 1 sup- 
pose 1 shall have to sit by the fire like John Rodger, and let you be 
a slave for me,” he exclaimed bitterly, clasping his wife 8 hands. 
Agnes could do nothing but weep and murmur, ‘ Harry! Harry! 

I will work on the streets first— 1 will do anything, said Hany 
in hysteric excitement. ‘ ‘ I am not broken clown yet Agnes, tor all 
they say. 1 can work for you yet. L wiU be anything, 1 will do 
■anythiug, rather than let want come to you. 

And the little wife wept over the hands that convulsively clasped 
her own and could only sob again, “ Oh, Harry, Harry 

“Han-y,” said Martha, “what have you done? Let us under- 
stand it clearly. Answer first one thing. Lift up your head and 
answer me Harry, is the fault yours? Is it a misfortune or a sin? 

He did not meet her earnest, anxious eye; but lie answered 
slowly, “ The fault is not mine, Martha. 1 was, indeed, exas- 


66 


HARRY MUIR. 


perated; but it was not me. 1 am free of this, Martha; it was rto 
blame of mine.” 

She looked at him with jealous scrutiny; she fancied there was a 
faltering in his voice, and that he dared not lift his e}es to meet her 
own, and the misery of doubt convulsed Martha’s heart. Could she 
believe him? 

If it is so,” she said, with a calmness which seemed hard and 
cold to Rose, “ 1 see no reason you have to be so much cast dov r n. 
Agnes, do not cry. This working on the street is quite an unneces- 
sary addition to the shock Harry has given us.” 

“ If it is so!” cried Harry, with quick anger. *' Martha, do you 
not believe me? Will you not trust my word?” 

“ Be composed,” said Martha, herself sitting down with a hopeless 
composure quite unusual to her; ‘‘tell us what the cause of it is- 
calmly, Harry. It is a great misfortune; but every misfortune is to 
be borne. Let us Iook at it without exaggeration; tell me the 
cause.” 

He had worn her patience out, and the aspect her exhaustion took 
was that of extreme patience. It surprised and hushed them all. 
Rose laid the baby in his cradle, aud stealthily took up her work 
Agnes withdrew her hand from Harry’s grasp; even he himself 
wiped his damp brow, and sat erect in ids chair. 

1 went to-day to the bank to get a check cashed,” he said in 
his usual manner; “ it was a small chefiv, only fifty pounds, and 1 
put the notes in my coat pocket. Everybody does it. 1 did in that 
respect just as 1 have always done; but, 1 was robbed to-day — 
robbed of the whole sum.” 

44 What then?” said Martha, breatlilpssly. 

44 Of course i w T ent at once and told Hick Buchanan. His father 
is not at home, and Dick took it upon him to reprove me tor care- 
lessness, and— various other things,” said Harry, with assumed 
bravado. “ So we got to high words— I confess it, Martha. 1 was 
not inclined to submit to that from him, which 1 could scarcely 
hear from you. And the result is what 1 have told you— 1 gave up 
my situation, or rather he dismissed me,” 

"There was a dead silence, for Martha’s composure hushed the 
condolences which olhorwise would have comforted poor Harry, 
and made him feel himself a martyr after aR. 

44 What did young Buchanan blame you for?— not,” said Mar- 
tha, a rapid flush covering her face as she looked at her brother, 

44 not with any suspicion— not for this,” 

He returned her look with one of honest and unfeigned indigna- 
tion. ‘‘Martha!” 

“ 1 did not know,” said Martha hurriedly. “ The lad is a coarse 
lad. 1 did not know w r hat you meant. What did he blame you 
for, Harry?” 

A guilty flush stole over Harry’s face. He sighed deeply. “ For 
many things, Martha,” he said with simplicity, “for which you 
have blamed me often.” 

The stern questioner w^as melted. It was some time before she 
could resume her inquiries. “ And how did it happen? How did 
you lose the money, Harry?” said Rose. 

*’ It w as no such wonder,” answered Harry with a little impa.- 


HARRY MUIR. 


67 


Hence. 44 It is a thing that happens every; day-- at least many men 
have been robbed before me. They lie in wait about the banks, 
these fellows.” 

“ And what way did you put it into your pocket, Harry?” said 
Violet. “ 3 would have held it in my hand.” 

“Be quiet, Aiolet; what do you know about it?” exclaimed 
Harry angrily. 

“ And was it near the bank you were robbed?” inquired Agnes. 

Harry faltered a little “ Not very far from it.” 

“And did nobody see the thief? Surely if it was clone in the 
open street, somebody must have seen who did it,” said Rose. 

Hairv’s eyes were cast down. “ No,” he muttered in a very lovr 
tone, “ they know their business too well to let anybody see them.” 

“ Was it" done in the street?” asked Martha quickly. 

He faltered still more. “ I don’t know— not exactly in the street, 
1 think. 1 met the captain of one ot our — of one of Buciianan’s 
ships; and 1 — I went with him to a place he was going to call at. I 
suppose it might be done about there.” 

Poor Harry! his head was bowed down— his fingers were fum- 
bling with the table-cover. He could not meet the eyes which were 
fixed so anxiously upon him. 

A low groan came liom Martha’s lips — it was hard to relinquish 
the comfort of believing that his besetting sin had no share in this 
misfortune— hard to have the courage quenched out of a heart 
which could be buoyant, joyous, m the face of trials amt dangers 
appointed by Heaven, to be suffered and overcome— but who could 
do nothing against a weakness so inveterate and strong as this. 

There was nothing more said for a time — they all felt this add a 
pang to tliei- misfortune; but while Martha’s eyes were still fixed on 
the ground, and Rose and Agnes forebore to look at him, in delicate 
care for his humiliation, Harry had already lifted his head, and 
growing familiar with his position, forgot that there was in it any 
liumiliation at all. 


“ i forgot to tell you,” he said, “what will be very hard upon us 
—very hard indeed— these moneyed men have hearts like the uether 
millstone. Agnes, 1 don’t know what you will do with your ac- 
counts. 1 have lost iny quarter’s salary as well as my situation.” 

The poor little wife looked at him aghast. She had been schem- 
ing already how she could get these accounts paid, and begin to 
“ the opening ” herself, to keep them afloat until Harry should hear 
of some other situation;— but this crowning calamity struck her 
dumb. 


“ They will hold me responsible for the whole fifty pounds,” said 
Harry in a low voice. “1 don’t think Mr. Buchanan himself 
would have kept back this that is owing me-tliis that 1 have 
•worked for. 1 should not care so much for the whole debt, said 
r>oor Harry with glistening eyes, “because it would be a spur to 
me to labor more strenuously, and I don’t doubt we might pay it 
off in a year or two— but to throw me on the world, and keep back 
this poor fit teen pounds— it is very cruel— to leave us without any- 
thing to depend on, until I can get another situation— it is very 
liard—but they do not know what it is to want five pounds, those 


68 


HARRY MUIR. 


prosperous men. Mr. Buchanan himself would never have done it 
— and to think that Dick should turn upon me!” 

“ It is well,” said Martha harshly, “ I am pleased that he has kept 
this money— how we are to do 1 can not tell — but I would not have 
had you take it, Harry. TV hat you have lost was theirs, and we 
must make it up. Some way or other we will struggle through, and 
it is far better that you did not become further indebted to them by 
receiving this.” 

Harsh as her tone was, it was not blame— pool Hany’s sanguine 
spirit rose. He could take some comfort from the bitter pride that 
would rather descend to the very depths of poverty than have such 
a debt as this. The galling burden seemed for the moment to with- 
diaw Martha’s thoughts from the more enduring misery, the weak- 
ness that plunged him into so many misfortunes. 

But Agnes, sadly considering how to satisfy the poor widow, Mrs. 
Bodger, who could not do without her money, and how to apologize 
to butcher, baker, and grocer— could take no comfort;— darkly the 
cloud of grave care settled down upon the soft young features. 
“ But what will I do with Mrs. Rodger,” said Agnes, “ and Waters, 
and Mr. Fleming? — oh, Martha!” 

‘‘Iwill speak to them myself,” said Martha, compressing her 
lips painfully. “ You shall not be subjected to this, Agnes— i will 
speak to them myself.” 

“And Mrs. McGarvie,” said Agnes, ”1 might have done the 
things myself if I had only known— and Mrs. Rodger.” 

“ Mrs. Rodgei must be paid,” said Martha. ‘ ‘ 1 am going to the 
warehouse to-day— we must see— we must think about” it all, 
Agnes.” 

But they made no reference to Hany. Rose, who had said noth- 
ing all this time, was already working very rapidly, pausing for an 
instant sometimes to look round upon them with affectionate wist- 
fulness, but scarcely slackening the speed of her needle even then; 
there was such occasion for labor now, as there had never been be- 
fore. 

Poor Harry! He sat in silence, and heard them discuss those sad 
economics— he saw that they made no reference to him; and the 
bitterness of having lost the confidence of those whose strong and 
deep affection could not bedoubted, even by the most morbid pride, 
smote him to the heart. A momentary perception of his position 
disclosed itself to Harry, and with the instant spring of his elastic 
temperament, he felt that to perceive was to correct, and th.it the 
power lay with himself to recover all that he had lost. With a sud- 
den start he turned to his wife and his sister. 

“ Agnes!— Martha!— why do you look so miserable? 1 will get 
another situation. TVe maybe better yet than we ever were be- 
fore.” 

“ And so we may,” said Martha, pressing her hand to her fore- 
head, “and so we may— we will always hope and look for the 
best.” 

Her voice sounded like a knell. Agnes, who was not quick to 
discover shades of implied meaning, brightened at the words— hut 
Rose, who deprecated and softened in other cases, could oppose 
nothing to this. It made herself sick and hopeless — for woise than 


HARRY MUIR. 

all impatience or harshness was this conscious yielding to fruitless 
and false hope, as one yields to a frettul child. 


CHAPTER XY. 

“ Now shall you see me do my daily penance. 

Mean, say you?— ’tis the grander suffering then. 

And thus Ibear my yoke.” 

It had been Martha’s custom at all times to take upon herself the 
disagreeable ihings of their daily life. A turbulent, stormy spirit, 
it was impossible to foim any apprehension of her character with* 
out taking into account the harsh and strong pride which had come 
undiminished through all her trials; 

“ the spurns 

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,” — 

the slights and trifling disrespects which are only felt by the refined 
poor — all these pettj 7 indignities were bitter to Martha, yet she had 
a certain satisfaction in compelling herself to endure them. To 
stand among the indiscriminate host who maintained themselves as 
she did; to submit her work to the inspection of some small official; 
to listen patiently to comments upon it, made for the sake of pre- 
serving a needful importance and superiority; these and many a 
trilling insult more were very hard to bear— but there was a bitter 
pleasure in bowing to them, a stormy joy in the conscious forcer 
with which she subdued her own rebellious nature, and put her 
foot upon its neck. It was conquering her pride, slie thought, and 
she conquered it proudly, using its own might to vanquish itself. 

But though Martha could bear needful humiliations herself, this 
pride of hers, which enabled her to bear them, built a mighty wall 
round her children. She could not bear humiliation to brother or 
sister; they were hers- heart of her heart, crown of her honor— and 
with t lie constant watchfulness of jealous love 3he guarded them 
from derogation. With courage untailing she could hear what was 
needful to be borne if it might be in her own person, but if it felt 
on them, the blow struck to her heart. 

And so she passed through crowds of prosperous people, who 
never bestowed a second look upon her— a woman growing old, 
with gray streaks in her hair, and harsh lines in her face— a poor 
woman, distressed and full of care — what was there to look at; 1 But 
if some magic had changed the bodily form, which was a veil to her, 
into tne person of some noble despot king, foiled and despairiug, 
there was enough to rivet the eyes of the world. . 

She was carrying back a fortnight’s laborious w r ork — and filling 
up all the interstices ot the greater misery, which did not change, 
were a hundred shitting plans of how to distribute this pittance. 
A strange chaos was in Martha’s mind as she went through those 
crowded streets. Broken prayers, so often repeated that they came 
vacantly into her mind often, and often fell upon her like strong 
inspirations, forcing her almost to cry aloud in an agony of entreaty, 
mingled with those painful calculations of the petty sum she was 
about to receive, which hovered like so many irritating insects over 


"70 


HARRY MUIR. 

the dull and hsavypain in her heart. The cloud would not dis- 
perse; tlie weight would not lighten from her. Harry, at home, 
had smiles ot new confidence on his face already, and had talked 
.Agnes and Rose into hope; but the days of hope were past for 
Martha. She desired to submit; she longed to bend her neck meekly 
under the yoke, and acquiesce in what God sent; but the struggle 
was hard, and it seemed to herself that she could have submitted 
easily to any affliction but iliis— this was the intolerable pain— and 
this was her fate. 

The warehouse was in the Candleriggs, and a spruce clerk re- 
ceived the work from her, and paid her the joint wages of Rose and 
herself for the fortnight's labor. It was thirty shillings— a very 
little sum, though they thought it good. On rare occasions the 
weekly produce of their united toil was as much as a pound, but 
this was a more usual amount. 

Filling her little basket with the renewed and increased supply of 
work given at her request, Martha turned to one ot the dim streets 
of counting-houses which surround the Exchange. In the same line 
of buildings the Buchanans had their office, but Martha was not 
going there. She ascended another dusty stair at some little distance, 
and entering a smaller office, asked tor Mr. Sommerville. 

Mr. Sommerville was a ruddy, comfortable man, in an easy-chair; 
once a poor Ayrshire lad, now, totally forgetful of that time, a 
cautious, shrewd, wealthy merchant, richer than many of the 
splendid commercial magnates who lightened the dim sky around 
him. But some claim of distant kindred or ancient acquaintance 
connected him with the family of the Muirs; though his look of 
doubt as Martha entered, anil his laconic greeting, “ Oh, Miss 
Muir,” when he recognized her, showed that this claim was of the 
slenderest kind. 

1 have come to speak to you about my brother,” said Martha, 
standing before him with a flush upon her face; “ 1 mean I have 
taken the liberty, Mr. Sommerville— for Harry has lost his situa- 
tion.” 

“ What! the place I got for him in Buchanan’s?” exclaimed the 
merchant. “ What has he done that for? some misconduct, 1 sup- 
pose.” 

“ No misconduct,” said Martha, with sudden courage; ‘‘ nor have 
you the slightest ground for supposing so. Harry had money stolen 
from him on his way between the bank and the office— a thing 
which no one could foresee, and which has happened to many a 
wiser man. This is the cause; but this is not misconduct.” 

Mr. Sommerville waved his hand impatiently. “ Fes, yes, 1 un- 
derstand; I see. Money stolen from him: 1 never had money 
stolen from me. But 1 never will recommend a man again; they 
invariably turn out ill. How much was it?” 

“ Fifty pounds,” said Martha, 14 for all of which he is responsi- 
ble, and, if he were but in another situation, which we would not 
fail to pay.” 

'* Oh, yes, that’s all very well,” said the merchant, 44 but how is 
he to get the other situation? There must have been great careless- 
mess, you know, or they never would have dismissed him. 1 heard 


HARRY MUIR. 


71 


he was wild; young Buchanan told me he was wild- but 1 did not 

eX - And IeUberTt d sbair “said Martha, controlling, with absolute 
nhvsical pain, the fierce hot anger of her mother-like love. Mr. 
Buchanan has already taken from Harry a proportion of this sum. 

1 id edge mvselt that the rest shall be paid. 

‘ You'’’ He looked at her. Certainly, her name would not have’ 
been ot the smallest importance at a bill; but glimmerings oi truth 
iiiahei than bills, or money values, will flash sometimes even on 
stolid men For a moment his eyes rested strangely upon her and 
then lie burned away his head, and said, “ Humph!” in a kind of 
confldentSl undertoL. The good man rubbed Ins bushy ha.r m 
nernlexitv He did not know what to make of this. . „ 

1 1 • But unless Harry has any employment we can do nothing, said 
'Martha* “ all that is in our power, without him, must be the mere 
necessities of living. You have helped us before, Mr Sommerville 
- If that was to be a reason for exerting myself again, in every 

s; 1 sfsLsi ns 

took mv word for your brother— and 1 assure j ou I 1 9, a 

If^son’da^ed'r '^excla^mecf Mmtha^ with’uneonlrollable im 

wilh 'a brother rfiSnTl-hrbeUay^’and'fegull’ed Imofemptatiom 

Bat 1 do wrong ‘“treason 

Ill'll ground here for any one saying that my brother has disgraced 

JMMW 

“ quite natural. „ tha p ast ii v . “No one has ever 

iSIliiilsil 

BSiaaWS ffsrst « ssawi 


HARRY MUIR. 


72 

possibly be called upon by and by for pecuniary help, if no situa- 
tion could be got ior Harry, Mr. Sommerville left his easy-chair, 
and had a consultation in the outer office with his confidential clerk. 

Very weary and faint, Martha remained standing in the private 
room. Many a time in her own heart, with the bitterness of disap- 
pointed hope and wounded love, she had condemned Harry; but 
with the fierceness of a lion-mother, her heart sprung up to defend 
him when another voice pronounced his sentence. She could not 
bear the slightest touch of censure— instinctively she dared and de- 
fied whosoever should accuse him — and no one had liberty to blame 
Harry except the solitary voice which came to her in the night 
watches wrung out of her own heart. 

In a short time Mr. Sommerville returned. 

“ l near of one place. Miss Muir,” said the merchant; '* but there 
Is security needed, and that might be a drawback— seventy pounds 
a year— a good salary, but then they want security for five hundred 
pounds. It you could manage that, the place is a very good one — 
Rowan & Thomson— and it is a traveler they want — not so much 
confinement as in an office; it might suit your brother very well, if 
it were not for the security.” 

“ It would not do,” said Martha, quickly. “ Harry can not be a 
traveler — it would kill him.” 

Mr. Sommerville elevated his eyebrows. “ Can not be a trav- 
eler! Upon my word, Miss Muir, to say that you came asking my 
help, you are very fastidious. 1 fancied your brother would be 
glad of any situation.” 

“ Hot this— only not this,” said Martha, in haste, as if she almost 
feared to listen to the proposal. “ Harry is not strong. I thank 
you, Mr. Sommerville, 1 thank you; but it would kill him.” 

” Then 1 know of nothing else,” said the merchant, coldly re- 
suming his seat. *' If I hear of anything, 1 will let you know.” 

Cold words of course, often said, never remembered. Martha 
turned away down the dusty stair, blaming herself for thus wasting 
the time in which she might have been working; but she could 
work — could give daily bread to the little household still— and that 
was the greatest comfort of her life. 

Far different from the mill-girls and engineers of Port Dundas 
was the passing population in these dusty streets. Elderly mer- 
chantmen, witli ease and competence in every fold of their spotless 
broadcloth— young ones exuberant and unclouded, casting off the 
yoke of business as lightly, out of the office, as they bore it sensibly 
within, met Martha at every step. Here come some, tresh from the 
Exchange. You can see they are discussing speculations, calcula- 
ting elaborate chances; perhaps, “ in the way of business,” hazarding 
a princely fortune, which may be doubled or dissolved before 
another year. And a group of young men meet them, louder and 
more demonstrative, circling round one who is clearly the object of 
interest to all. Why?— he is going out to India to-morrow to make 
his fortune— and save that it gives him a little importance, and 
makes him the lion of the clay, envied by all his compeers, this 
youth, who is flushed just now with a little excitement, in reality 
feels no more about his Indian voyage, than if it were but a sum- 
mer expedition to the Gairloch, or Koseneath Bay; and is much. 


HARRY MUIR. 


73 


more comfortably assured of making bis fortune, than be would be 
of bringing home a creditable amount of trout, if the event of to- 
morrow was a day’s fishing, instead of the beginning of an eventful 
life. Of the youths round him, one will be the representative part- 
ner of his “ house ” in far America before the year is out; another 
will feed wool in the bush; another learn to adorn his active north- 
ern life with Oriental pomps and luxuries by the blue waves of the 
Bosphorus. And among them all there is a certain fresh, confident, 
unconscious lite, which, so far as it goes, carries you with it in 
sympathv. It is not refined, it is not profound, it has little elec- 
tion and little depth; but withal it has such a fresh breeze about it 
such a continual unceasing motion, such an undoubtmg confidence 
in its own success, that this simplicity of woildliness moves you J* 
if it were something nobler. Not .true enough, nor great enough to 
call the solemn “ God speed ” out of your heart; yet you can not 
choose but wish the young adventurers well. 

And there are clerks more hurried; young men w ith quick busi- 
ness step and eye, whose sons shall be merchants sons, as carelessly 
mosoeious as are the young masters in the office now; but some 
who will live and die poor clerks, yet who will baye their share ot 
enjoyed life as well, and end tlieir days as pleasantly, 1 < 
pass among the crowd. Some, too, who wi 1 sink and fall, who 
will break hearts, and give fair hopes the death-blow, bo much 
Toun g life — so many souls, each to make its own existence for 
Uselff and not another. There come solemn thoughts into the ramd 

^ An^Martha! half abstracted, looked on it, comparing them with 
Harnu But there was none like Harry— not one; the heart that 
clasped its arms about him in his misfortune— the dry eye which 

watched the night long with schemes for ^' s could 

none worthy to be placed beside him. Poor Harry ! his sister coma 
not see these others, for his continual shadow resting on her heart. 

When Martha had nearly reached the Exchange, she heard some 
one^colUng after her. -It was John Buchanan; he came up out of 

vnu tell Harry that I think he should come down and see 
WI i you ten jnairy ■ ,< r been chasing you 

SX tef S s-yoTLllfsT^° h My father's come home and 

lie’s shut up with Dick. 1 don’t think lie’s pleased. It Haiiy 
would come down to morrow, it might he all right again. 


UHAPTER XVI. 

“ “wot poundsTycar,' ’“repeated Harry Muir as his sisters 

five and Rowan & Thomson is a very good house. 1 think 1 
might go down to-moirow and inquire. 


74 


HARRY MUIR. 


“ It would not do — yc 1 " must not think of it,” said Maltha 
quickly. 

“ Why must 1 not think of it? 1 don’t believe John Buchanan is 
light, Martha, about his father quarreling with Dick for sending 
me away. And, besides, how could 1 return there, where they all 
know 1 was dismissed— dismissed, Martha; besid s Dick’s own 
abuse. I could not do it. I would rather do anything than go 
back;— and seventy pounds a year!” 

” Harry, let us rather labor for you night and day.” 

His face grew red and angry. “ Why, Martha? I am not a 
•child surely that 1 can not be. trusted. What do you mean?” 

“No,” said Martha bitterly, “ 3 r ou are not a child; you area 
lull-grown man, with all the endowments a man needs to do some- 
thing in the world. You can constrain the will of these poor girls, 
who think of you every hour they live; and you can assert your 
independence, and be proud, and refuse to bear the reproof you 
have justly earned. God forgive me it 1 am too hard; but you wear 
me out, Harry. When 1 say you must not seek for a fatal occupa- 
tion like this, have 1 not cause? Do 1 need to descend to particu- 
lars? Would you have me enter into detail?” 

” Martha! Martha!” The trembling hand of Rose was on her 
sirm, anxiously restraining her; and Agues looked up into the sul- 
len cloud on Harry’s face, whispering, “ Do not be angry; she does 
not mean it, Harry.” 

“ Is it because 1 am in your power that you taunt me, Martha?” 
he said, fiercely. 

Martha compressed her lips till they grew white; she did not an- 
swer. After the first outburst, not even the cruel injustice of this 
received a reply. She had herself to subdue Defore she could again 
approach him. 

And the two peacemakers, hovering between them, endeavored, 
with anxious pains, to heal the breach again. The young wife 
whispered deprecatory words in Hairy’s ear, while she laid her 
hand on Martha: but pitiful looks were all the artillery of Rose; 
they softened both the belligerents. 

“I don’t care what happens tous out of the house, Martha,” 
said Rose at last; “ but surely we may be at peace within. There 
are not so many of us iu the world; we should be always friends.” 

And Martha’s anger was short-lived. ”1 spoke rashly,” she 
said, with strange humility; “ let us say no more of this now.” 

And there was little more said that night. 

But Harry would not go to the office again to see Mr. Buchanan: 
and, poor as they were, none of them desired to subject him to this 
humiliation. So he* went out instead the next morning to make 
bootless inquiries and write bootless letters— exertions in which there 
was no hope and little spirit: went out gloomily, and iu gloom re- 
turned, seeking comfort which they had not to bestow. 

But while poor Harry, was idle perforce, a spasmodic industry 
had fallen upon the rest. They scarcely paused to take the simple 
meals of necessary life; and the pleasant hour of family talk at tea 
was abridged to-night to ten minutes, sadly grudged by the eager 
laborers, on whose toil alone depended uow the maintenance of the 
family. Little Violet stood by the table with a clean towel in her 


HARRY MUIR. 


75 

liand, preparing, with some importance, to wash the cups aud sau- 
cers when they had finished. But Harry lingered over the table,, 
leaning his head on his hand, and trifling with something which lay- 
by him. Violet, in housewifely impatience, moved about among 
the cups, aud rung them against each other to rouse his attention^ 
and let him see lie retarded her; but Harry’s mind was too much 
occupied to notice that. 

Harry,” cried Agnes, rather tremulously from the inner room, 
” 1 see Mr. Gilchrist on the road. He is coming here. What can 
it be?” 

Harry started and put away his cup. They all became anxious 
and nervous; and Agnes hastily drew her seat close to the door of 
her room, that she might hear what the visitor said, though her 
baby, half dressed, lay on her knee, very sleepy and impatient, and 
she could not make her appearance till she had laid him in his little 
crib for the night. 

Thus announced, Mr. Gilchrist entered the room. He was a 
massy, large man, with grizzled hair, which had been reddish in hia 
younger days, and kindly gray eyes gleaming out from under shag- 
gy eyebrows. His linen was spotless; but his diess, though quite 
appropriate and respectable, was not very trim; little layers of snuff 
encumbered the folds of his black waistcoat; and from a steel chain 
of many complicated links, attached to the large round silver watch 
in his fob. hung two massy gold seals, one of them engraven with 
an emphatic ” J. G.” of his own, the other an inheritance from his 
father. There was no mistaking the character and standing of this 
good and honorable man; his father before him had been head desk 
in an extensive mercantile house in Glasgow; his sons after him 
might be that, or greater than that. With his two hundred pounds 
a year, he was bringing up such a family as should hereafter do 
honor and service to their country and community; and for himself, 
no better citizen did his endeavor for the prosperity of the town, or 
prayed with a warmer heat t, ” Let Glasgow flourish.” 

“ Harry, my man,” said Mr. Gilchrist, as he held Harry’s hand 
in his own, aiid shook it slowly, “lam very sorry about this.” 

“ Well, it can not be helped,” said Harry with a little assumed 
carelessness; “ we must make the best we can of it now.” 

” Ay, no doubt,” said the cashier, as he turned to shake hands 
with Rose and Martha; “ to sit down and brood over a misfortune 
is not the way to mend it; but it may not be so bad as you think. 
Angry folk will cool down, Harry, if ye leave them to themselves 
a little.” 

Harry’s heart began to beat high with anxiety— and Rose cast 
furtive glances at Mr. Gilchrist, as she went on nervously with her 
work, almost resenting Martha’s calmness. But Agnes had entered 
just then from the inner room, and the kindly greeting which the 
visitor gave her occupied another moment, during which the ex- 
citable Harry sat on thorns, and little Violet, holding the last cup 
which she had washed in her hands, polished it round and round 
with her towel, turning solemn wide open eyes all the time upon 
this messenger of fate. 

° 1 have a letter from Mr. Buchanan,” said Mr. Gilchrist, draw- 
ing slowly from his pocket a nDte written on the blue office paper. 


HARRY MUIR. 


76 

Barry took it with eager fingers. Agnes came to the back of his 
chair, and looked over his shoulder. Rose, trying to be very quiet, 
bent her head over her work with a visible tremor, and Martha 
suffered the piece of muslin she had been working at, to full on her 
knee, and looked with grave anxiety at Harr}'. 

Round and round went the glancing tea-cup in the snowy folds 
of the towel which covered Lettie’s little hands— for she too forgot 
what she was doing in curious interest about this; a slight impatient 
exclamation concluded the interval of breathless silence. “ No, L 
can not take it— it is very kind, I dare say. of Mr. Buchanan; but 1 
can not accept this,” exclaimed Harry as he handed the letter across 
the table to Martha. 

But the visitor saw that, in spite of Harry’s quick decision, he 
looked at his sister almost as if he wished her opinion to be differ- 
ent. Agnes too changed her position, and came to Martha’s side. 
The letter was very short: 

“ Sir, — My son has informed me of the circumstances under 
which you have left the office. 1 regret the loss for your sake, as 
well as my own, but I can not feel myself justified in doing what 
I hear my son threatened to do, consequently if you will call at the 
office in the course of to-morrow, Mr. Gilchrist has instructions to 
pay you the full amount of your quarter’s salary, due on the 1st 
proximo. “ 1 am, sir, 

44 Your obedient servant, 

“ George Buchanan.” 

44 1 can not take it— 1 do not see how 1 can take it,” said Harry, 
irresolutely, as he sought Martha’s eye. 

44 It’s nonsense, that,” said Mr. Gilchrist, taking out a large silver 
snuff-box and tapping slowly on its lid, with liis great forefinger; 
“ you must look at the thing coolly, Harry, my man. It’s no fault 
of yours that you lost the money; no sensible person would blame 
you for that— a thing which has happened to many a one before. 1 
mind very well being once robbed myself. I was a lad then, about 
your years, and the sum was thirty pounds; but by good fortune 
twenty of it was in an English note, and not being very sure whether 
it was canny or not, 1 had taken its number— so off 1 set to all the 
banks and stopped it. It was a July day, and I was new married, 
and had no superabundance, of notes, let alone twenty-pounders — 
such a race as 1 had,” said Mr. Gilchrist with a smile, raising his 
red and brown handkerchief to his brow in sympathetic recollection. 
44 1 believe I was a stone lighter that night. 1 succeeded, however, 
and got back my English note very soon; but Mr. Buchanan would 
not hear of deducting the other ten from my salary; and he’s better 
able to stand the loss of a few pounds now than he was then. 
Think better of it, Harry.” 

”1 think Mr. Gilchrist is right,” said Martha; 44 no one could 
possibly blame you for such a misfortune, Harry — and Mr. Buch- 
anan is very good — you have no right to reject his kindness; it is as 
ungenerous to turn away from a favor frankly offered, as to with- 
hold more than is meet.” 

44 It is very well said, Miss Muir,” said Mr, Gilchrist, contem- 
plating the long inscription upon the heavy chased lid of his snuff- 


HARRY MUIR* 


77 ' 


boxrwith qniet satisfaction. “ 1 really think it would be an un- 
kindly thing to throw back this, which was meant for a kindness, 
into the hands that offer it. He is not an ill man, George Buch- 
anan; 4 for one ye’ll get better, there’s waur ye’ll get ten,’ as the 
song says; and besides, Harry, 1 was young once myself, and so 
was'my wife. 1 mind when our James was in his cradle like that 
youngster there, we had just little enough to come and go on; and 
for any pride of your own, you must see and not scrimp your wife. 
Tout’s man, vou are not going to take ill what 1 say Do you 
think, it I lost a quarter's salary just now, it would not scrimp my 
w r ife? and I think no shame of it." 

“Neither do I think shame— certainly not,’ 7 said Harry; we 
have only what we work for. But I have actually lost Mr. Buch- 
anan’s money — I don’t see — ’’ . 

“Harry” interrupted Mr. Gilchrist, “never mind telling me 
what you don’t see— come down to the office to- morrow, and hear 
what Mr. Buchanan sees — he has older eyes than you, and knows 
the world better, and there’s no saying what may come of it: for 
you see Airs. Muir,” continued the cashier, casting down his kind- 
ly eyes again upon the grandiloquent inscription which testified that 
his snuff-box had been presented to him by young men trained^ 
rhe office under his auspices, as a token of esteem and respect, “ it 
is wonderful what a kindness everybody has for this lad. 1 myself 
have been missing his laugh this whole day, and scarcely knowing 
what ailed me— so may be something better may turn up if he 
comes down to-morrow.” 

“ And Martha thinks you should go— and mind all that we have 
to do, Harry,” whispeied Agnes. , . . . 

A glow of pleasure was on Harry's face— he liked to be praised, 
and felt in it an innocent, kindly satisfaction— but still he hesitated. 
To go back again among those who knew that he had been dis- 
missed and disgraced-to humiliate himself so tar as again to recog- 
nize Dick Buchanan as his superior— to present himself humbly be- 
fore Dick Buchanan’s father, and propitiate his favor. It was very 
unpalatable to Harry, who after his own fashion had no lacK of 

Pr “I will see about it. 1 will think it over,” said Harry doubt- 

1U ‘M think I must send our Tom to you in his red gown,” said 
Mr. Gilchrist; “ where he got it, 1 can not say, but they tell me the 
lad is a metaphysical man— it he ever gets the length to be a preacher, 
we will have to send him East, I’m thinking, for metaphysics sel- 
dom flourish here away; but now my wife will be redding me up 
for being so late. Mind, Harry, l will expect to see you at the 

° il The t good rr nmn rose to go away. “ By the bye,” he added as lie 
shook hands with Rose— and Rose felt herself look guilty under Ins 
smiling glance. “ 1 saw a friend of yours coming oft tne Avi coach 
ri cam! up-the advocate lad, Mr. Buchanan’s nephew. You are 
sure of his good word, Harry, or else I am much mistaken. 

“ Air Charteris!— he has come back very soon. Good-night, Mr. 
Gilchrist, 1 will think about it,” said Harry as he went to the door 
with his sister. 


78 


HARRY MUIR. 


Mr. Gilchrist left some excitement behind him. Agnes had risen 
into tremulous high spirits. Rose was touched with some tremor 
of anticipation, and Martha, watchful and jealous, looked at her 
sister now and then with scrutinizing looks; for Mr. Gilchrist’s Iasi 
words had awakened Martha’s fears for another of her children; 
while in the meantime little Violet had polished all the cups and 
saucers, and was now putting them with much care away. 

“Harry will go — do you not think he must go, Martha?'’ said 
Aeries. “ Mr. Gilchrist says they miss him in the office. 1 don’t; 
wonder at that. He will go back again, Martha?” 

“ I think he should — 1 think he will,” said Martha with a slight 
sigh. “ There might have been something better in a change — one 
has always fantastic, foolish hopes from a change — but 1 believe this 
is best.” 

Agnes was a little damped; for she saw nothing but good fortune 
in this unlooked-for overture ol Mr. Buchanan. 

Harry lingered at the outer door in a very different mood. He, 
too, had been indulging in some indefinite hope from change. He 
could not see that the former evils lay in himself, poor Harry! He 
thought if the circumstances were altered, that happier results might 
follow— and while he w r as not unwilling to return to his former 
situation, and had even a certain pleasure in the thought that it was 
open to him, the submission which it would be necessary to make, 
galled him beyond measure. He stood there at the door, moody 
and uneasy; not weighing his own feelings agaiust the we’l-being“ 
of the family, certainly, for Harry was not given to any such proc- 
ess of deliberation — but conscious that the two were antagonistic, 
and moodily letting his own painful share in the matter bulk largest 
in his mind. 

Just then a hackney coach drew up at a little distance from the 
door, and Cuthbert Charteris leaped out. He was a good deal 
heated, as Harry thought, and looked as it he had taken little time 
to rest, or put his dress in order since he finished his journey— but 
he carried nothing except a little paper parcel. He came up at once 
to Harry and shook hands with him cordially— they went upstairs 
together. 

“ 1 have just come fiom Ayr,” said Cuthbert with some em- 
barrassment, as lie took liis old place at the window— “ you must 
pardon my traveler’s costume, Mrs. Muir, for it is not bait an hour 
since 1 arrived.” 

“ You have bad little time to see the town,” said Harry. “ Did 
you find my uncle? Has he Rent any message with you, Mr. Char- 
teris?” 

“ I have a message,” said Cuthbert, clearing his throat, and be 
coming flushed, “ but before 1 deliver it, Mr. Muir, you must bear 
a long preface.” 

‘‘Is my uncle ill?” exclaimed Martha. “Has anything hap- 
pened?” 

“ Nothing has happened. He is quite well,” said Cuthbert, “ only 
I have been making some inquiries about your family concerns, for 
which 1 need to excuse myself by a long story.” 

Harry was still standing. He drew himself «p with great hau- 
teur, and coldly said, “ Indeed!” 


HARRY MUIR. 


79 


Ptose lifted tier liead for a moment with timid anxiety; the light 
was beginning to tail, but Pose still sat in her corner holding the 
work which at present made little progress. Martha had hud down 
hers. Agnes had withdrawn to the sofa with her baby who, al- 
ready asleep, would very soon be disposed of in the cradle; while 
Harry, with unusual stateliness, leaned- against the tab’e, looking 

toward Cuthbert. , 

“ 1 think I mentioned before 1 went away, said Chart eris, 

“ that my errand to Ayr was connected with one of those stories of 
family pride and romance and misfortune which sometimes lighten 
our legal labors. This story you must let me tell you, before 1 can 
explain how my motives for searching out these, were neither curi- 
osity nor impertinence." 

As Cuthbert spoke, he opened his parcel, placed the old Bib.e on 
the table, and handed to Harry a little roll of papers. They were 
formal extracts from the registers of the old church at Ayr attested _ 
by the session clerk, proving the marriage of Rose A1 lenders w th 
John Calder, and of Violet- Calder with James Muir, together with 

the register of Harry’s own birth. 

Harry was nuite bewildered; be turned over the papeis, half 
curious, half angry, and tried to look cool and haughty; but won- _ 
der and interest defeated his pride, and impatiently calling tor the 
candle which Violet, with much care, was just then bringing into 
the room Harry threw himself into the arm-chair, and resting his 
elbows on the table, leaned his head upon both his hands and fixed 
his eves, with a half defiance in them, lull upon Cuthbert 

The others drew near the light with interest and curiosity as great 
•as his; but though they held their breath while they listened, they _ 
did not restrain their fingers— the necessity or work was too great to 

be . C Schfhorof ! century since,' ’ said Cuthbert. becoming 
excited in spite of himself, “ a family in the neighborhood of Stir- 
ling had their composure disturbed by what seemed to them the 
very foolish marriage of one of their sons. There were s.x sons m , 
the family ; this one was the fourth, and had at that lime very little 
vislhfeproapect of ever being heir. They were but small gentry 
and ldo not very well know wl.y they were so jealous ot theu 
gentility but tmwever that might be, this marriage was followed 
by ettecfs as tragic as it the offender had been a prince s son instead 

°* ,a His father disinherited and disowned him ; he was cut off from 
all intercourse with his family; but in his own affairs he seems to 
have beeu prosperous enough until his wife died. That event 
closed the brighter side of life for this melancholy man He bad 
two daughters, then children, and with them he left Stirling. 

A slight start moved the somewhat stiff figure of Maitha, Rose 
unconsciously let her work fall and turned her head toward Cuth- 
bert- Harry remained in the same position, fixedly gazing at him; 
while \gnes rocking the Cradle gently with her foot, looked on a 
little amused, a little interested, and not a little curious, wondering 

Cuthbert, - my hero, we suppose went 
to London ’’ (another strange start as if of one half asleep, testified 


80 


HARRY MUIR. 


some recognition, on Martha’s part, of the story), 44 but there 1 lose 
trace of him. It is only for a short time, however, far immediately 
afterward 1 find him at Ayr.” 

“At Ayr?” Harry too started now , and again turned over the 
papers, which he still held in his hands, as if looking for a clew. 

“In the meantime,” said Outhbert, “all the other members of 
the family are dead; there is no one remaining of the blood but this 
man — the children of this man.” 

“ And his name?” said Martha, with a slight hoarseness in her 
voice. 

“ llis name,” said Cuthbert. drawing a long breath of relief, as 
his story ended, “ was John Allenders.” 

There was a momentary silence. They looked at each other with 
bewildered faces. “ What does it mean?” said Harry, becoming- 
very red end hot as the papers fell from his shaking fingers; “1 
can not see —it is so great a surprise— t el 1 us what it means.” 

“ It means,” said Cuthbert, quickly, “ that you are the heir of 
John Allenders of Allenders, and of an estate which has been in 
the family for centuries, worth more than tour hundred pounds a 
year.” 

Harry looked round for a moment almost unmeaningly — he was 
stupefied; but Agnes stole, as she always did in every emergency, 
to the back of bis chair, and laid her hand softly on his shoulder. It 
seemed to awake him as from a dream. With one hand he grasped 
hers, with the other he snatched the work from Martha’s fingers 
and tossed it to the other end of the room. “ Agnes! Martha!” 

Poor Harry! A sob came between the two names, and his eyes 
were swimming in sudden tears. He did not know what to say in 
the joyful shock of this unlooked for fortune; he could only grasp 
their hands and repeat their names again. 

Cuthbert rose to withdraw,- feeling himself a restraint on their 
joy, but Martha disengaged herself from the grasp of Harry, and 
would not sutler him to move. 

“ No, no; share with us the pleasure you bring. You have seen 
us in trouble, stay with us now.” 

“ Is it true, Mr. Cliarteris, is it true?” said Agnes, while Harry, 
still perfectly tremulous and unsteady, threw Rose’s work after 
Martha’s, and shaded his eyes wdth his bauds, lest they should see 
how near weeping he was. “ Tell us if it is true.” 

Harry started to his feet. “True? do you think he would tell 
us anything that was not true? Mr. Cliarteris, if they were not all 
better than me, 1 would think it was a delusion — that neither such 
an inheritance nor such a friend could come to my lot. But it’s 
for them — it r s fov them! and a new beginning, a new Jife— Martha, 
we shall not be worsted this time — it is God has sent us this other 
battle-field.” 

And Harry, with irrestrainable emotion, lifted up his voice and 
wept. His little wife clung to his shoulder, his stern sister bent over 
him with such an unspeakable tenderness and yearning hope in her 
face, that it became glorified with sudden beauty— and Cuthbert re- 
membered Uncle Sandy’s thanksgiving, and himself could have 
■Wept in syu pathy for the solemn trembling of this joy; for not the 


II AERY MUIR. 81 

sudden wealth and ease, but the prospect of a new life it was which 
called forth those tears. 

“And what did my uncle say, "Mr. Charter is,” said Rose, when 
the tumult had in some degree subsided. No one but Rose remem- 
bered that Cuthbert had spoken of a message from Uncle Sandy. 

‘‘He bade me repeat to you a homely proverb.” said Cuthbert, 
who was quite as unsteady as the rest, and had been a good deal at 
a loss how to get rid of some strange drops which moistened his 
eyelashes, ** It takes a strong hand to hold a full cup steady; that 
is the philosophy 1 brought from your uncle.” 

“ No fear,” said Barry, looking up once more with the bright 
clear loveable face, which no one could frown upon. “No fear — 
what could I do with my arms bound? What could l do in yon 
office? but now, Martha, now!” 

And Martha once more believed and hoped,' ascending out of the 
depths of her dreary quietness into a very heaven. Few have ever 
felt, and few could understand this glorious revulsion. With an 
impatient bound she sprung out of the abyss, and scorned it with 
her buryant foot. It might not last— perhaps it could not last — but 
one hour of such exulting certain hope, almost worth a lifetime’s 
trial. 

“ And 1 will get a little room all to myself, and Katie Calder will 
come and sleep with me,” said Yiolet. 

They all laughed unsteadily. It brought them down to an easier 
level. 

“ 1 think, Mr. Muir, you should come at once with me to Edin- 
burgh,” said Cuthbert, “ and see your lawyer, who has been hunt- 
ing for you for some time, and get the proof and your claim estab- 
lished. 1 begin to think it was very fortunate he broke his leg, Miss 
Muir — for otherwise 1 might never have seen you.” 

“ And what made you think of us? how did you guess?” said 
Harry. 

“Rose and Yiolet,” said Cuthbert, with a little shyness. “It 
was a happy chance w'liich gave these names.” 

Rose drew back a little. There was something unusual, it 
seemed, in Cutlibert’s pronunciation of her pretty name, for it made 
her blush; and by a strange sympathy Mr. Charteris blushed too. 

“ W 7 hen shall we start? for 1 suppose you will go with me to 
Edinburgh,” continued Charteris. 

Harry hesitated a moment. “1 must go down to the office to- 
morrow,” he said, with his joyous face unclouded. “ Your cousin 
Dick and 1 had something which 1 thought a quarrel. It was noth- 
ing but a few angry words after all. 1 will go down to-morrow. 

Harry had entirely forgotten how angry he was— entirely forgot- 
ten the insulting things Dick JBuckanan said, and what a humilia- 
tion he had felt it would be to enter that office again. Poor Harry 
was humble now. He had such a happy ease of forgetting, that lie 
did not feel it necessary to forgive. Bright, sanguine, overflowing 
with generous emotions, Harry in his new wealth and happiness 
that night could not remember that there was any one in the world 
other than a friend. 


82 


HARRY MUIR. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“ Methinks, sir, 

A mother’s heart’s transparent— ’tis so easy 
To find the way into ’t.” 

“ Well, Cutlibert, my man, are you back from your gowk’s er- 
rand? The month is tar on now; it has taken you long,” said Mrs. 
Charteris. 

“ 1 have first to present my fiiend to you, mother,” said the ad- 
vocate; “and as he will be Mr. Harry Muir only a day or two 
longer, we must make the most of him while he bears his old name.” 

** So you were right after all,” said the old lady, lifting up her 
hands. “ Dear me, Cuthbert, to think of that! You see, Mr. Muir, 
1 could not believe his story, and prophesied that he was suie to 
fail— though I am very glad 1 wa*s wrong. You are welcome to 
Edinburgh, and l wish you joy of your inheritance.” 

With a natural diffidence, which Hushed his cheek, and slightly 
restrained his speech, Harry Muir made his acknowledgments. His 
dress had been most carefully overlooked before he left Glasgow 
that morning, and his eye was shining with animation and high 
hope. 

Mrs. Charteris felt “ her heart warm ” to the stranger as he took 
the great easy-chair in the corner, and bent forward toward Cuth- 
bert as to his guide and counselor. The attitude and expression 
charmed Cuthbert’s mother. She felt that her son had done much 
for this young man- -that he would llo more — and Harry Muir be- 
came dear to her good heart, because he made her son dearer, and 
still more worthy of love. 

We must be off again instantly, mother,” said Cuthbert, “to 
meet Davie Lindsay at my office. Ay, Davie is a slow man ; he has 
not an eye for a mystery like some other people; but I suppose I 
must not boast. To-tlay we shall do a little business; to-morrow 
we propose a trip up the Firth by the Stirling steamer, and a glance 
at Allenders. Muir, it will take lots of money to put that house in 
decent order, you may be sure.” 

Harry laughed; twenty pounds would have been lots of money to 
Harry two days ago. It struck him as being slightly ludicrous, 
and certainly quite amusing, all this grandeur of expectation. That 
lie should have a house to repair, and lots of money to repair it— he, 
Harry Muir! 

“It is a fine country, is it not?” he asked, in some haste, to cover 
his nervous joy. “ I have never seen those Links of Forth, and their 
very name raises one’s expectation. Did you not say this house of 
enchantment was near the river?” 

“ He knows no more than we do, Mr. Muir,” said Mrs. Char- 
teris. “You will lake your bed here, of course? No doubt it is a 
bonnie country, but mind you must look for nothing like the Clyde.” 

“ Come along, Muir— 1 can’t pretend to cope with two west "coun- 
try people,” said Cuthbert. *' Come, Lindsay will be waiting open- 


HARRY MUIR. 


8S 

mouthed; and to-morrow we must make our pilgrimage together, 
and no one shall say I am ignorant of the enchanted palace any 
mare. Come, Muir.” 

Next day the little party set out upon their brief voyage. This 
freedom of enjoyment, without stealth or remorse, was new to 
Harry. He breathed freely. It seemed to him, as from a listener, 
he became a partaker in the conversation of Lindsay and Charteris, 
that this was indeed a new life, a bracing atmosphere, such as he 
had not known before. He became quiet at first. — somewhat serious 
even _ an d looking up upon an April sky, and down upon the great 
stream chafing and foaming in the little vessel's course, there came 
upon him tlie abstraction of a gentle reverie, picturing the times to- 

come! , , . , . 

Ike times to come! Harry saw honor, wealth, independence, 
happiness, in a bright crowd before him. He did not se.e would 
not see — poor, rash, incautious heart! — that a grim shadow lowered 
upon them all, the shadow of his conquering sin— nor that this 
presence held the keys of the joyous home he dreamed of, and stood 
defiant on its threshold, blighting the flowers around the door. lie 
never trembled for himself — poor Harry! there seemed before him 
nothing but security and peace. 

Overhead the clouds flew to the east like a pilgrimage of birds, 
sweeping over the breadth of heaven with a speed which made you 
dizzy, and the mass of shadow threw a sable gleam on the water, 
as it dashed up its foaming mane, and shook it in the breeze. There 
are no clouds down the Firth where Inchkeitli yonder bums and ex- 
pands in the full sunshine; but here we have only wayward glances- 
of light, darting down upon us as if in play, which vanish in a mo- 
ment into the pursuing cloud. 

The little vessel leaps over the buoyant water with sometimes a 
mist of spray over her bows, and the passengers march in quick 
time along the decks, as it this swell and lengthened bound made 
music wild and martial, stirring the heart to quicker motion. 

Now comes a sudden gleam, touching the russet outline or 
Inckco] m, as a painter would have it touched; and as we pass the 
light glides on before us, glittering upon the dewy slopes of Fite, 
and quivering along the waves, till it seems to sink there, like a 
golden arrow launched out of the heavens; and the clouds again fly 
over us, away to the ungenial east. 

St. Margaret’s Hope— All, Saxon Margaret, Athelmg Exile, 
Queen and Saint! was there hope in this quiet bay when the Scot- 
tish land stretched its brown arm of succor and vowecl its rude 
heart to thy service? Not very tar ofi now is gray Dunfermline, 
forsaken of kings-and you may see a spire glitter on the further 
side of those withdiawing brae3, pointing where llie palace crum- 
bles and the wallflower and ivy flourish, over forlorn and solitary 
places where queens had their bowers, and kings then council- 
chamber. Here too is the royal ferry, with its narrow gateway, 
bringing to a point the broad Firth on either side; and we rustle- 
past the sentinel-rock, which has looked down often in the old 
times upon the passing boats of queens, and dash with a bound into 
the free course once more; past little busy ports, and slumbering vil- 
lages, past the great houses in their nest of trees— till brave old 


HARRY MUIR. 


S4 

Demeyet bows his stately head to us among the clouds, and the sun 
breaks out triumphant over the crowned rock of Stirling, and w r e 
glide into this silvery maze, radiant with flying lights and shadows 
— the Links of Forth. 

Here, by the side of the water, a great saugh tree droops its long 
locks, and trails them on the stream; behind it are a heavy mass of 
alders -by its side a hawthorn slowly whitening with its fragrant 
blossom— and above the aiders you can see a regular line of elm and 
beech, marshaled in fair succession, which seem to form a mall or 
avenue on the river’s side. Beyond all appear the roof and gables 
ot a hidden house. You can not tell either size or form in the pass- 
ing glimpse you gain of it from the river, but the heart of Harry 
Muir beats high as his eye falls on this home— a home it must be, 
for smoke curls from the chimneys, and a boat lies softly rocking 
on the water at the foot ot the saugh tree. 

“ Neighbors,” said Harry to himself, under his breath; “ and 1, 
too, must have a boat for Lettie and Rose.” 

“ Mr. Muir,” said Lindsay, bending forward with a smile, “ that 
is Allenders.” 

The heir started violently. With an eager look he tried to pene- 
trate the network of boughs and opening leaves, and failing that, 
followed with his eyes the very smoke as it curled away into the 
clouds. His heart beat so loudly that, for a moment, it made him 
sick. 

“ Allenders'! — my home, their home!” murmured Harry; and he 
felt his breast swell as if with a rising. 

A drive of a few miles from Stirling brought them to the other 
side of Allenders. There was less wood there, and the view was 
toward the wide strath in which lies Bannockburn. But Harry had 
not time to look at the prospect without— there was something, at 
the moment, greatly more interesting to him in the gray gables and 
dilapidated rooms within. 

The house was not large, but it was tall, with windows specked 
over it in all corners, without an attempt at regularity; and on the 
eastern side was a curious little turret, obtruding itself abruptly 
from the wall, and throwing up a spare point, now black and tar- 
nished, over the heads of the high trees. 

The door was opened to them tardily by an old man, who did 
not seem at all desirous that they should penetrate beyond the 
threshold. This custodian of the house of Allenders was thin and 
shriveled, and had a face dingy with age and smoke, the small 
features ot which seemed to have shrunk and crept together, under 
the touch of time. A few thin, white hairs strayed over his head, 
diverging from the crown in all directions with genuine independ- 
ence; and his dress was of homespun blue, with great ribbed stock- 
ings and buckled shoes. Those poor thin angular limbs seemed to 
bend any way with the stiff facility of wooden joints; and as he 
dangled his lean arms by his side, and gazed with light gray un- 
meaning eyes into their faces, it seemed as it the chill winter of 
years and poverty had frozen his 'very soul. 

“ You must let us in to see the house, my man,” said Lindsay 
briskly. “ This is the young laird I have brought with me. Do you 


HARRY MUIR. 85 

think he’s like the old Allenders, Dragon? — you should know them 
well.” • 

“ Whilk ane is it, Mr. Lindsay — the muckle ane or the little 
ane?” asked the old man. 

Now Harry was by no means little. He did not at all relish the 
adjective. 

“This is Mr. Muir— Allenders ot Allenders,” said Lindsay, 
hastily. “ Come in ; I’ll be youv guide, and Dragon here will over- 
look us, and see we take nothing away.” 

They entered a small square .hall, dimly lighted, at the further 
end of which was a stone staircase of good proportions; but the 
walls were black with the dust of years, and the oak balusters of 
the stairs were broken and dilapidated. It had a dreary, deserted, 
uninhabitable look; and Harry, quickly impressed for good or evil, 
was half inclined to think Mrs. Rodger’s little parlor a brighter 
home than this after all. 

Lindsay opened quickly, and with the air of one thoroughly ac- 
quainted with the house, which, however, he had only once seen be- 
fore, one ot the dim oak doors which opened into the hall. Within 
was a wainscoted parlor of good dimensions, with one small window 
in the great blank- of its side wall, and one squeezed into a corner % 
beside the fire-place. The carpet was so worn that pattern and 
colors were all alike indiscernible, and dark curtains ot faded pur- 
ply-crimson hung over the dingy windows. A long dining-table, 
polished and glimmering, caught one ray of the sunshine without, 
and carried it down the narrow length of the apartment to the old- 
fashioned sideboard at the end; but save for this, the place looked 
as desolate as could be imagined. Lrndsay turned round at the 
door with the air of an exhibitor, and something ot the feeling; for 
though himself, at the first glance, had thought all this very chill 
and miserable, lie looked unconsciously for satisfaction from Harry. 
Harry did not say a word. Alas! the house of enchantment — the 
fairy palace! The reality was a very difierent thing from the 
dream. 

Cuthbert went quickly to the nearest window, and drew away 
with more energy than was needful the jealous curtain. 

“ Another window here to keep this one company, and some pict- 
ures on these grim panels, and brighter f urniture— you will make 
this room the pleasantest of winter parlors, Muir. One can have no 
idea of what it will be, from its appearance just now.” 

“Anither window!” exclaimed f he old man, who had followed 
them. “ Would ye bre;:k the guid wall, ye waslerful prodigal? Mr. 
Lindsay, is’t this ane?” and he pointed his finger wrathfully at 
Cuthbert. 

“No, no,” said Harry Muir, with restored good-humor; “ we 
must take your counsel since you like the walls so well. But what 
is your name? What did you call him, Mr. Lindsay?” 

“ They ca’ me Dragon,” said the warden of Allenders, vacantly. 

“ That is, I’m meaning my name’s Edom Comrie; but I never hear 
onybody have the civility to ca’ me aught but Dragon. Put in 
anither window! What would ye do that for, I would like to ken? 

Do ye mean to say that what was licht enough for the auld Allen 
ders, is no licht enough for the like of you? You can wear spec- 


86 


HARRY MUIR. 


tacles if your vision is failing. 1 do it mysel’; but wliat for wad 
ye break the guid bonnie wa’ that might withstand the French, for 
a nonsense window? And there’s a bonnie bush a’ fu’ o’ white 
roses, in their season, leaning on the house close by there. Would 
ye tramp down my bonnie lady rose for your mason work? Mr. 
Lindsay, is’t no again the law?” 

“ But what if we brought, a bonnie Lady Bose to sit at the new 
window, and look out upon the flowers!” said Cuthbert with a 
quick blush. “ When Allenders brings his family home, he’ll bring 
ladies here; and flowers, you know, never thrive without light. 
You would not show yourself a dragon to the ladies, Adam —the 
first time they heard of you, too.” 

The old man chuckled a strange laugh. 

“ He thinks I'm heeding about ladies — me! and you’ll none of 
you be learned, 1 reckon ; for if ye were, there’s routli o’ grand 
books ben the bouse — 1 whiles read in them mysel’, and they are a’ 
guid reading and profitable. When 1 come on an ill ane, I Kindle 
my fire wi’t 1 laid my band on ane yestreen, that’s nae better 
than it should be, in my judgment; but it was uncommon divert- 
ing, and 1 just laid it by again, for my ain carnal pleasure— for I’m 
no abune the like o’ that, though I’m auld. Come awav, Alien- 
ders— if you are Allenders; I’ll let you see the book, and like a guid 
laddie, ye’ll take nae heed of yon birkie and his windows.” 

Tne young men followed their conductor in high good-humor. 
He had quite neutralized the melancholy appearance of the house. 

Opposite the dining-parlor was a much smaller apartment, heavy 
and dark with books. Into the somber twilight of this room no 
stray sunbeam wandered. High trees closed it lound without, and 
great book-cases, dusty and crowded, oppressed the wall within. A 
single old print of some obscure Stirlingshire divine, long since for- 
gotten, hung over the mantel piece, and a much worn leathern 
chair stood before a little writing-table in front of the fire-place. 
A window seat, cushioned and covered with hard crimson moreen, 
occupied the iecess of the window; but from this window you only 
looked out upon the damp outline of a neglected flower-bed, covered 
with rank vegetation, and upon the close screen of trees, which 
bent round it on every side. 

“ Man, 1 dinna envie ye the land!” exclaimed the harmless 
Dragon of Allenders, ” but 1 div envie ye the books; and being a 
callant, ye‘11 no ken bow to make a right use of them. Bow isna 
this a grand room? I’ll warrant ye never were in a muckle house 
like this afore?” 

” It is fight we want— nothing but light. It is the gloom which 
makes these rooms look so dreary,” said Charteris, sympathetically 
beholding the chill which again fell over Harry. 

Hariy went to the window, and looked out. Why, they would be 
buried here— and the good fortune was a piece of penance after all. 

“ You should give me another five hundred a year for consenting, 
to live in this place, Mr. Lindsay,” he said in almost an irritated 
tone. 

Poor Harry had a weakness of thinking that disagreeable things 
were somebody’s fault. lie was quite impatient with Lindsay and 
Charteris. Me felt as if they had deluded him. 


HARRY MUIR. 


87 


“ Dr. Allenders in Stirling would net think so,” said Lindsay, in 
liis turn a little offended. “ I dare say you might tiud a Jacob 
among them eager enough to bargain for the birthright.” 

“ See, my man, here’s the book,” said the old servant, shuffling 
up to Harry. ” Ye needna say onything to the minister about it, 
if you should happen to fall in with him, for, may be, he mightna 
think it very richt for a man of my years; and I’ll put it ben the 
house on the hob to kindle the tire when I’m done reading it; but 
it’s awfu’ entertaining. See, Jook at it; but 1 can na ca’ ye Allen- 
ders— Allenders was an auid man, and your only a laddie. What 
do they ca’ ye by your christened name?” 

“ My name is Harry Muir,” was the instant reply, for Harry had 
unconsciously a feeling of disgust now at the very sound of Allen- 
ders. 

” liairyt What garred them ca’ ye Hairy? it’s no a canny name 
for a laird of Allenders; and there’s never ane been called by it since 
the time the lady was lost; but I hope ye’ll come to nae skaith, for 
you’re no an ill lad, judging by your looks. And ye have teddies 
coming, have ye? what right has the like of you to leddies?” 

” My sisters'and my wife, Adam,” said Harry, with a smile. 

“ His wifel hear till him! Will ye tell me that the like of this 
bit callant’s married? Sirs, 1 never was married mysei.” 

The poor old feeble Dragon looked round as bespoke with the air 
of a hero, and lifting up his shriveled hands, exhibited himself com- 
placently. But as he did this, hi3 book fell, and stooping to pick 
it up, he presented it to Harry, with an unmeaning smile. 

Poor Dragon! it was a very rare and fine old edition of Shakes- 
peare, which his rough handling had by no means improved. Harry 
was not sufficiently learned to know that it was curious and valua- 
ble, but be saw its great age and antique appearance, and thought 
it might be better employed than kindiing Adam’s fire. 

“ When you are done with it, keep it for me, Dragon,” said 
Harry; “ 1 should like to look at it myself.” 

The old man began to shake his head, slowly at first but with a 
gradually increasing rapidity of motion. 

“‘I’m far from clear that it’s right to give the like o’ this to 
young folk; it’s only those who by reason of use have their senses 
exercised to discern both good and evil, the apostle says; and you 
are but a babe to be fed on the sincere milk. How mony sisters 
have ye, Mr. Hairy?’ 

** Three, Dragon.” 

“ Three sisters and ae wife! four women intil a house at &nce! 
Come your ways up the muckle stair,” said the old man, hastily, 
“ and see the bonnie rooms we’ve gotten to lodge them V in; and 
plenty of light and plenty of windows, for a’ yon birlde says.” 

The young men followed in silence. 

On the second stojy there was a multitude of small rooms. One 
of them, over the library, which they entered first., disclosed to 
Harry’s half-reluctant eyes, the prettiest of little silvery burns, 
sparkling away into the river, under the shelter of those overgrown 
trees which made the under rooms so melancholy. 

“Here we are,” said Lindsay, triumphantly. " Iiow you may 




HARRY MUIR. 


88 

feel on the matter, I can’t tell, Mr. Muir, but this seems very fine 
to me; and (be windows behind look out on the Forth.” 

Harry was half ashamed of his ill-humor, but for the momeut he 
could not conquer it. 

” We’ll give this room to the bonniest ane,” said the Dragon, 
with his feeble smile. “ Whilk ane’s that, Mr. Hairy; and you’ll 
no be for ony mair windows for your Lady Rose,” added the old 
man, turning sharply round on Cuthbert. 

Cuthbert had been investigating the apartment behind. 

“ The very brightest of drawing-rooms,” said the advocate, with 
a warmth which made Harry still more ashamed of himself. ‘ You 
have nothing to do but take down this partition, and throw the two 
into one room.” 

The poor old guardian of these dim w T alls clinched his hand, and 
shook it with feeble vehemence in Cuthbert’s face: 

“ Would ye put such radical notions into the innocent lad’s head? 
Would ye daur?” 


CHAPTER XV11I. 

Lord, what a nothing is this little span 
We call a man ! 

How slight and short are his resolves at longest, 

How weak at strongest! 

Quarles. 

Cuthbert Charteris returned to Edinburgh that night, buS 
not until he had first made a rude outline— he was no artist, but 
could use his pencil enough for this — of Allenders, with its eccen- 
tric turret and shady mall, and the boat— a very crazy, incompetent 
boat as it turned out— lying under the saugh tree upon the quiet 
W T ater. He showed it to Harry, as they eagerly consulted about the 
necessary improvements, and Harry thought it quite a remarkable 
production; but Cuthbert greatly doubted as lie inclosed it to Mar- 
tha Muir. The deed almost lost its original intention of simple 
kindness, as he pondered over it, and reared that they might think 
his drawing a very poor allair; but it was sent at last. 

Harry remained with Lindsay in Stilling. It was necessary to 
see the family of Allenders residing there, who, failing Harry and 
his household, w r ere next heirs; and some legal forms had also to be 
gone through. Harry had recovered his usual spirits; he was ex- 
cited with ills new position, with his proposed improvements, and 
even with his inn lodgings; and while Lindsay labored through 
some necessary processes for his enfeoffmtnt, Harry strayed out to 
see the town. He saw the town, it was very true. He climbed to 
the bastions of the lotty castle, and looked round him east and 
west. To the blue Highland hills in the distance— to Demeyet and 
liis brother Ochils, glooming in brown shadows over the country at 
his feet— to the silvery maze of the Forth, wantoning in and out be- 
tween those verdant banks as it he were fain of a pretext to linger 
at every corner, because he loved the way so well— and to the broad 
strath of Bannockburn, stealing away into (hose great lines of cloud, 
which seemed to carry its gently sloping plain into the distant sky. 
Harry looked upon them all, and mused and lingered, thinking 


HARRY MUIR. 


89 


pleasant thoughts. Then he saw the lights begin to gleam, one 
after another, in the town below, and he sauntered down to walk 
through the streets with their pleasant, quiet, leisurely stir, and 
then to return to his hotel. 

But it was very late when Harry returned to his hotel— and he 
was “ indisposed, ” and would not see the wondering Lindsay, who 
only left his papers for the supper he had ordered, when he heard 
that Mr. Muir had already gone to his room, and was “indisposed.” * 
Lindsay was puzzled and offended. He could not make out what 
this sudden indisposition could mean. 

Poor Harry! next morning he rose late, with an aching head and 
a pained heart. He forgot at first when he woke how he had con- 
cluded the last evening;" but as the remembrance dawned upon him, 
he wrung his hands and groaned aloud. What could he do? how 
could he defend himself against*, this overpowering weakness? He 
threw himself upon his face, and prayed in an agony of self-re- 
proach and shame, for strength, for deliverance. Alas! this great 
inheritance, this fair new life — had he put the stain of his infirmity 
upon its promise already? 

Lindsay had breakfasted some time before Harry made his ap- 
pearance in their sitting-room; and now sat at a window, reading a 
newspaper, and looking very grave and stately. A ceremonious 
salutation passed betwec n them; and Harry, sick, despondent, and 
miserable, sat down at the table. As he loitered over his coffee, and 
pushed his plate away from him with loathing, there was perfect 
silence in the room except for the rustling of Lindsay’3 paper, aud 
his own restless motions. 

Poor Harry was utterly cast down, but his humiliation struggled 
with a fierce irritability : and Lindsay never moved his paper, but 
his companion felt the strongest impulse to snatch it from his hand, 
and trample on it, as if the indifference, which could content itself 
with a newspaper, while he was suffering thus, was a positive in- 
jury to him. 

When he had finished breakfast he remained still leaning his head 
upon his hand, and idly brooding over the disordered table. He 
did not feel any inclination to go out, he had indeed nothing pres- 
ent before him, but a diseased image of himself overspread with 
blank despondency, and clouded with rising ill-humor. He had 
never felt this so much before; for always before he had to justify 
himself, or to melt in sympathy with those tears of yearning love 
and pity which had been wept over him so often. He scarcely had 
known till now how bitterly and harshly the soul can condemn 
itself, alone. 

“ When you are at leisure, Mr. Muir,” said Lindsay, coldly, “ I 
shall be glad if you will accompany me to call on Dr. Allenders. 

He was here last night, having received a note 1 wrote him from 
Edinburgh; and as lie did not see you then— ” 

“ Of course, 1 am ready — of course,” said Harry, starting up 
hastily. “ It was impossible 1 could know when Dr. Allenders in- 
tended to call. But I am quite at your command, Mr. Lindsay. 
Does this man mean to dispute my claim?” 

“ This man is a person of the highest character,” said Lindsay, 
with his stiff gravity. “ Having seen the documents, he does not 


HARRY MUIR. 


90 

iDtend to put any obstacle in your way, Mr Muir. By the bye, I 
do not know whether you mean to assume the name of the family 
which you succeed, it is not a condition of the will certainly, but 
it was implied. Shall 1 present you to the doctor as Mr. Allen- 
ders?” 

‘‘No, no, not yet,” said the conscience-stricken Harry. 41 Not 
yet— not to-day. No, no -let it be a better time.” 

These words were spoken incoherently, but Lindsay understood 
them, and Ins lieai t was softened. 

They went out, and the conversation gradually became less con- 
strained and more familiar; but Harry painfully recognized the 
places which he had passed during the rambles of the previous 
night, and vowed in his heart, as the. bright day without restored in 
some degree his failiug spirit and courage, that never more, never 
again, should these inanimate things remind him of temptations 
yielded to and resolutions broken. Poor Harry! a very short time 
'makes him as confident as ever; and when they have reached the 
doctor’s door, he has again begua to look forward fearlessly into 
the future, and to bring no self-distrust or trembling out of the past. 

The doctor’s house is on the outskirts of the town, a square 
comfortable habitation, with a radiant glimpse from its windows of 
the mazes of the river and the far off hills. Upon the door glitters 
a brass plate, beaiing the name of John Allenders, M.D. ; and 
Dr. John Allenders seems to be in comfortable .circumstances, for 
a spruce boy in buttons opens the door, and they are shown into a 
handsome library, which a strong, peculiar fragrance, and a sus- 
picious glass door with little red curtains, proclaims to be near the 
surgery; but Dr. John has a good collection of books, and altogether 
appears to Harry an excedingly creditable relation, and one with 
whom even the heir ot Allenders may be sufficiently well pleased to 
count kin. 

It is some time before Dr. John makes his appearance; but Lind- 
say, who stands opposite the glass dooi, catches a glimpse of a dis- 
sipated looking head, in great shirt collars, stealthily peeping through 
the red curtaius at Harry, and making faces with an expression of 
unmitigated disgust. But he has scarcely time to notice this, when 
a shadow falls upon the door, and with a solemn step, Dr. Allenders 
enters the library. 

lie is a commonplace looking mau, with great dark eyes, which 
project almost their wliole round from under the puckered eyelid. 
It is curious to notice how those eyes move, as if they were touched 
by strings or wires behind; but the rest of his face is very tolerable, 
and he looks what he is, a thoroughly respectable person, driving 
his gig, and having money in the bank; and understanding himself 
to be a responsible man, owing society, in right of his position in 
it, ever so many observances and proprieties. 

Close behind Dr. Allenders, comes the dissipated head and the- 
shirt collars, which just now made faces at Harry Muir. The 
owner of the head stumbles up tne two steps which connect the low 
level ot the surgery with that of this more dignified apaitment. and 
enters the room with a swagger. He has eyes like the doctor’s, 
and a long, sallow face, encircled by t he luxuriant brushwood which 
repeats under his chin the shaggy forest of hair which is the crown 


HARRY MUIR. 


91 

and glory on his head. He wears a very short gray coat, a colored 
shirt, and an immense neck-cloth; and thcie enters with him into 
the room an atmosphere of smoke, tinted with many harmonizing 
odors, which envelops his own person like a separate world. 

Harr^ turned round with slightly nervous haste as the doctor 
made his appeal ance. The doctor bowed, and held out his hand 
with a fiankness half real, half assumed; but Harry’s hand fell as 
it advanced to meet that of l)r. Allend ere, while Dr. Allenders’ 
son uttered a coarse exclamation of suprise and recognition. Poor 
Harry! his face became purple with very shame and auger — for this 
coarse prodigal had been one of his boon companions on the pre- 
vious night. 

“ Met before?” said the doctor, inquiringly, as Harry, stimulated 
by the rude laugh of young Allenders, and the serious wonder of 
Lindsay, made a strong effort to recover himself. “ Seen my son 
in some other place, Mr. Muir? 1 am glad of that, for blood is 
thicker than water; and though we have lost an estate through your 
means, my young friend, 1 hope we’ll have grace given us not to 
be envious, but to rejoice in your exaltation as if it were our own; 
besides that, it would have been very inconvenient to me — extreme- 
ly inconvenient for my professional duties — to have lived five miles 
out of town; and then the house is such an old tumble down affair. 
So 1 wish you joy, most heartily, Mr. Muir. The income of Allen- 
ders’ estate would have been small compensation to me, and Gilbert 
here has not settled to the harness yet; so we’ve no reason to com- 
plain — not a shadow. Pray sit. down— or will you come upstairs 
and see my wife and my daughters? Oh, we’ll not disturb them; and 
being relations, they have heard of you, Mr. Muir — 1 told them 
myself yesterday — and would like to see the new heir.” 

‘‘ 1 say, Muir, my boy, I’m delighted it’s you,” said Mr. Gilbert 
Allenders, thrusting forward a great, bony, tanned hand, ornamented 
with a large ring. 44 Pleasant night, last night, wasn’t it? Glad to see 
we’ve got another good fellow among us. Come along upstairs and 
see the girls.” 

Mr. Gilbert Allenders bad a rough voice, with the coarsest of 
provincial accents; and to mend the matter, Mr. Gilbert put himself 
to quite extraordinary pains to speak English, omitting his r’s with 
painful distinctness, and now and then dropping a necessary h. It 
had been a matter of considerable study to him, and he was very 
complacent about his success. 

Harry submitted with a bad grace to shake hands, and uncon- 
sciously drew nearer to Lindsay. 

But Lindsay, who only smiled at the vulgar Mr. Gilbert, instinct- 
ively drew himself up, "and turned his face from Harry Harry 
Muir for himself was nothing to the young lawyer; but Lindsay felt 
personal offense mingle in the contempt with which he perceived 
how his client chose his company — leaving himself solitary in their 
inn to go and seek out a party which could admit this Gilbert 
Allenders. Henceforth, Mr. Lindsay might be man of business to 
the new heir — friend he could never be. 

44 1 must be in Edinburgh this afternoon,” said Lindsay coldly. 
4(4 Do you accompany me, Mr. Muir? for it you do not, 1 have ac- 


92 


HARRY MUIR. 


complished all that is necessary here, 1 fancy, and may take my 
leave. ’ 

Harry hesitated for a moment, his better feelings struggling with 
false shame and pride; but lifting his eyes suddenly, he encountered 
the derisive smile of Gilbert Allenders, and took in with one rapid 
glance all the characteristics of his new-found kinsman. These 
had more effect on his susceptibility than either reason or repent- 
ance. He did not decide on returning in the lawyer's respectable 
society, because he feared for his own weakness, if he permitted 
himself to remain here alone. No, often though Harry’s weakness 
had been demonstrated even to his own conviction, it was not this; 
but what a knowledge of himself could not do, disgust with Gilbert 
Allenders did. He answered hastily that he too would return at 
once, and persuading Lindsay to remain and accompany him up- 
stairs to the drawing-room where Mrs. Allenders and her daughters 
sat in state expecting their visit, they at length left the house to- 
gether, declining the proffered escort of Mr. Gilbert. 

But Harry did not escape without a galling punishment for the 
previous night’s folly. Gilbert Allenders, seeing how he winced 
uncter it, plied him with allusion alter allusion. “ Last night, you 
recollect?” and with the most malicious perseverance recalled its 
speeches, its laughter, its jokes, and its noise, assuming too an 
ostentation of familiarity and good-fellowship which Harry could 
scarcely restrain his fury at. The effect, was good and bad; on the 
one hand, Harry vowed to himself fiercely that he never would put 
himself in the power of such a man again: on the other, he forgot 
how he himself had wasted the fair summer night begun with 
pleasant thoughts and blessings; how he had desecrated and pol- 
luted what should have been its pure and healthful close. He for- 
got. his repentance. He felt himself an ill-used man 

But he left Stirling that night with the half-mollified Lindsay* 
So much at least was gained. 


CHAPTER NIX. 

Fair gladsome waking thoughts, and joyous dreams more fair! 

Castle of Indolence . 

In the parlor at Port Dundas the window is open, the little muslin 
blind waves in the soft air, and sounds steal in drowsily through 
the sunshine from without. At the table sits Agnes, in her best 
gown, writing a letter to Harry. Violet, in a corner, stands erect 
with her hands behind her, defying Rose, who sits with great dig- 
nity in the arm-chair to puzzle her with that spelling-book. Little 
Harry, now beginning to walk, creeps about the floor at his own 
sweet will; and indeed they are all idling but Martha, who still 
works at the “opening,” though you perceive she does it slowl} T , 
and has not the keen interest in “ getting on ” which she had a 
week ago. 

Agnes writes rather laboriously- she is no penwomau; and what 
she writes is just about nothing at all— a domestic letter, full of 
implied leuderness and exuberant hopes, through which you can 
scarcely seethe sober and solemn solicitude which has madeHarry’s 


HARRY MUIR. 


. qo 

t/O 

■wife a woman deeper than her nature, and older than her years. 
But the heart of the young wife is very light now, and she looks at 
the sleeve of her best gown with a smile, as she pauses to arrange 
the next sentence, and beats upon her hand with the feather ot her 
pen. Little Flarry, seated at her feet, which he makes a half-way 
house between two corners, teais away with appetite at a great 
orange, refreshing himself, before, on hands and knees, he starts 
upon another circumnavigation. 

Looking dow T n upon him lovingly, the young mother concocts her 
next sentence with triumphant success; and you can- guess, without 
looking over her shoulder, what a pretty outline grows upon her 
paper, under that inspired pen, which can write so quickly now. 
it is not a daguerreotype of little Harry which his mother will send 
to his father: but indeed one can not tell what height of excellence 
and warm expression this very daguerreotype can attain to, when 
the sunshine which makes the portraiture is not the light of com- 
mon day, but of love. 

Nor are you working either, little dark-haired Violet! Alas, it 
is nD sensible educational purpose which has carried you into the 
corner, with one defiant foot planted firmly before the other, and 
those restless hands crossed demurely behind. Not a respectable 
lesson gravely administered and received, as lessons should be, but 
a challenge proudly given to Rose to “ fickle ” you, who are very 
confident in this particular ot spelling, that you can not be 
“ tickled.” A slight curve upon the brow of Rose, as she hunts 
up and down through all those pages for hard words, intimates that 
she is a little “ fielded ” herself; and Violet raises her head more 
proudly, and Rose laughs with greater mirth as each successive 
word is achieved, though now and then the elder trifler discovers 
that she is idle, and wonders why it is, and remembers the cause 
which has made their industry less" urgent, with new smiles and joy. 
But Martha still works at her “opening.” This, the last which 
they are ever to do, Harry says, is a collar very elaborately embroid- 
ered, which Martha resolves shall be bestowed on Agnes, as one 
memorial of those toilsome days when they are past. The sterner 
lines in Martha’s face have relaxed, and her eyelids droop softly 
with a grateful pleasant weariness over her subdued eyes. Some- 
times the curves about her mouth move with a momentary quiver, 
as though a few tears were about to fall; but the tears Dever fall. 
And sometimes she lays down her work on her knee, and droops 
her head forward, and looks up under her eyelashes with a smile at 
the young mother, or at the two household llowers. These are 
long, loving, lingering glances, not bright, but dim with the unusual 
gentleness of this unusual rest. 

The sounds without do not strike upon your ear harshly, as 
sounds do in winter, for this April day is warm and genial, like a 
day in June, and has in it a natural hush and calm, which softens 
every distant voice. Chief of all passing voices comes gayly through 
the sunshine and the open window the song of Maggie McGillivray. 
She is sitting again on her mother’s step, with the full sunshine, 
which she does not at all heed, streaming upon her brown, whole- 
some, comely face. Her scissors flash in the sun, her yellow hair 
burns; but Maggie only throws over lur head the finished end of 


HARRY MUIR. 


■$4 

lier web, and clips and sings with unfailing cheerfulness. This 
time it is not the “ Lea Rig,” but “ Kelvin Grove,” to which the 
shears march and keep time; but it is impossible to tell what a zest 
it gives to idleness, when one can look out upon industry so sun- 
shiny and alert as this. 

“ Perfunctory— p, e, r, f, u, n, c, t— Eh! Rose, yonder’s Postie, 
with a letter,” cried Violet, out of breath. 

“ It’s sure to be from Harry, he’s always so thoughtful,” said 
the young wife; “ run and gtt it, Violet. 1 wonder if he has seen 
the house yet— I wonder if he has settled when we’re all to go— I 
wonder— but to think of him writing again to-day! Poor Harry! 
he would think we would be anxious, Martha.” 

“ Here’s three; everybody but me gets a letter,” cried Violet, en- 
tering with her hands full. “ Martha, Postie says this should have 
come yesterday, but it had no number; and here’s one from my 
uncle. May 1 open Uncle Sandy’s letter, Martha?” 

But Violet’s question was not answered. Harry’s letter was a 
large one, a family epistle addressed to Martha, inclosed within the 
love-letter which Harry’s still fresh and delicate affection seut to 
his vvite. But while Agnes ran over hers alone, a flush of delight 
and expectation making her smile radiant, Rose looking over Mar- 
tha’s shoulder, and Violet standing at her knee, possessed themselves 
of the contents of the large letter; so that Aimes, roused at the end 
of her own to kindred eagerness about this, started up to join them, 
as Rose exclaimed: *' A boat on the water,” and Violet cried, “ Eh, 
Agnes, a wee burn,” in the same breath. 

And then Martha smilingly commanded the little crowd which 
pressed around her to sit down quietly, and hear her read; and 
Violet added with authority: 

“ Agnes, Rose, you’re to go away. Martha will read it out loud;” 
hut, notwithstanding, still obtruded her own small head between 
the letter of Hairy and the eyes of her elder sister. 

And Martha did read ” out loud,” all the others still continuing 
to bend over her shoulder, and to utter suppressed exclamations as 
their eyes ran, i aster than Martha’s voice, over the full page. The 
mall, the boat, the burn, the partitions to be thrown down, the 
windows to be opened, the painting and gilding and furnishing 
which filled Harry’s mind with occupation, produced the pleas- 
antest excitemeut in the family. Those two girls, Agnes and Rose 
— for the wife was little more mature than her young sister — paused 
at the end of every sentence to clap their hands, and exclaim with 
pleasure; but Violet’s small head remained steady under shadow of 
Martha’s shoulder, and she read on. 

“ 1 have the accumulated rents of two years— nine hundred 
pounds— to begin with,” wrote Harry; “ you may fancy liow much 
Improvement we may get out of such a sum as that; and I am re- 
solved that the house shall be a pleasant house to us all, and like 
what a home should be, if anything 1 can do will make it so. We 
must have a new boat, instead of this old crazy one, and will be 
obliged to have a vehicle of some kind. “Violet must go to Stirling 
to school, so we’ll need a pony for her (Violet laughed aloud), and 
Agnes and Rose and you. my dear Martha, must have some kind of 
-carriage; liow T ever, you shall decide yourself about that. But this 


HARRY MUIR. 05 

thousand pounds, you see, will enable us to begin in proper style 
and that is a great matter. ~ 

1 have just seen a family of Allenders in Stirling, respectable 
vulgar people, with a dissipated son, who took upon him to be more 
intimate with me than I was at all disposed for. I am afraid I shall 
be rude to this Gilbert Allenders, if he continues to press himself 
well 1 ” 1116 ’ li0Wever ’ wlien you are al1 yo Q der, everything will go 

Poor Harry! It was a consolation to him to condemn Gilbert 
Allendeis;. it seemed to take a weight from his own conscience; dis- 
gust tor his dissipated kinsman stood Harry in stead as disgust lor 
dissipation itself, and he took the salve to his heart, and was com- 
forted. 

‘‘ Martha, will a pony carry two folk?’' asked Violet, anxiously, 

Ves, 1 mind — for ladies rode upon a pillion langsyne. ” 

“ And what two folk would you have it carry, Lethe?'’ asked 
Rose. 

“ Me and Katie Calder. Martha, will you let Katie come?— far 
Auntie Jean’s ill to her; my uncle told Harry that, Martha.” 

Ask Agnes,” said Maltha, with a smile; “ I am only Harry’s 
sister and your sister, Lettie; but Agnes is Lady of Allenders now; 
you must ask Agnes.” 

Tiie little wife grew red and white, and laughed hysterically; 
then she sunk down on the floor at Martha's feet, and clasped her 
arms round the elder sister’s waist and wept quietly with her face 
hidden. It was too much for them all. 

‘‘ And it s an enchanted castle, and there’s a Dragon in it,” cried 
Violet joyously; “ but, Rosie, Rosie, there should be a knight. Oli! 
1 ken v.lio it is— I ken who it is; it’s Mr. Charteris!” 

“ Lettie, what nonsense!” exclaimed Rose, who at. that moment 
became extremely upright and proper. 

‘‘1 ken; you’re the princess, Rosie, and Mr. Charteris is the 
knight; and maybe there’s fairies about the burn! Oh! I wish I 
was there!— me and little Katie Calder!” 

Martha lifted the other letters from the table; they had been for- 
gotten in the interest of this, One of them was from Uncle Sandy; 
the other was a note from Cuthbert, inclosing his sketch — an ex- 
tremely brief note, saying little— yet Rose examined it over her sis- 
ter’s shoulder stealthily, while the others looked at the drawing. 
There was nothing peculiar about the hand; and Rose did not un- 
derstand the art of gleaning traits of character out of hair strokes — 
yet her eyes went over it slowly, tracing the form of every letter. 
Poor Cuthbert! he thought this same Rose would be very much in- 
terested about his drawing; it seemed for the moment that ihese 
plain characters occupied her more. 


CHAPTER XX. 

A pair of friends— though I was young 
And Matthew seventy-three. 

Wordsworth. 

“Eh, wee Hairy!” cried Miss Aggie Rodger, ‘‘your faitlier’s a 
muckJe man noo; do you ken that, my pet? and you’ll ride in a 


96 


HARRY MUIR. 


coach, and get a grand powney o’ your ain, and eat grossets and pu’ 
llowers a’ the simmer through; do you hear that, my wee boy? 
But ye’ll have to gang away. Hairy, and what’ll we a’ do wanting 

ye?” 

“It’s me that’s to get the pony,” said Violet. “ I’m to ride into 
Stirling to the school every day, and 1 want Martha to buy a pillion 
for Katie Calder, and then, Miss Aggie, 1 can sit before, and Katie 
behind, like the lady in Lochinvar; but it’s me that’s to get the 
pony.” 

‘ Preserve me, what a grand lady!” said Miss Aggie, throwing 
up little Harry in her arms; “ but the wee boy’s the heir for a’ that 
— are ye no, Hairy?” 

“ But 1 want to ken how we’re to get to Stirling,” said Violet. 
4 ‘ 1 ken about the Castle and the Ladies’ Rock, and all the places 
where the Douglas played, and where Lufra chased the deer, and 
King James coming down the High Street, too; but Mr. John, will 
you tell me how we’re to get to Stirling?” 

‘‘1 never was there myself, Lettie,” said the idle man; “but 
there’s a map of Scotland in that auld book — see, down yonder in 
the corner, behind ‘ Hervey’s Meditations ’ — that’s it— and we’ll 
look and see.” 

The book was a dingy and tattered one, and beside it lay a very 
old copy of Young’s Night Thoughts,” which Violet brought with 
lier in her hand. 

“ See now, this is the road,” said the poor, good-natured Johnnie, 
with whom Lettie was an especial favorite, as he spread out the 
worn map on his knee, and taking a pin from the lapel of his coat, 
traced 'with it the route. “ But your brother, you know, Lettie, 
went to Edinburgh first, and then sailed up here— and this is 
Stirling.” 

“ Eli, how the water runs out and ml” exclaimed Violet; “ and 
we have a boat all to ourselves. Mr. John, will you tell me 
what this book is — is it good tor reading?” and Violet contem- 
plated, with a slightly puzzled expression, the dense pages of blank 
verse in which there appeared no story to catch her eye, or interest. 

“ Very good for reading,” answered the macular Mr. John ; “ but 
now, Lettie, put the books back, and run down to Mrs. McGarvie’s 
like a good girl, and bring me a new pipe — run, Lettie!” 

There was a strange alliance between the child and the man. 
Lettie, not always very tolerant of messages, put down the books 
without a murmur, and obeyed. 

It was now May, and the day was hot and slumbrous. Miss 
Jeanie Rodger was at the warehouse, carrying back the work; Miss 
Aggie making boisterous tun with little Harry at the window; while 
proud, pensive, faded Miss Rodger sat very unpresentable in an- 
other room, repairing worn finery, which never could have been 
suitable for her, and was suitable for no one now. 

The mother, worn out by two or three successive encounters with 
tax-gatherers, whose visits she bitterly resented at all times, and 
among whom she classed the collectors of those innocent water and 
gas accounts, which lay upon Ihe “ bunker” in the kitchen, was 
sleeping away her wrath and fatigue; everything was still in tbe 
house, except the crowing of little Harry. And little Harry’s 


HARRY MUIR. 


97 


mother and aunts were making a new frock for him in the parlor 
— a work which, tor very joy, made slow progress: they had so many 
other things to think and talk about. 

Looking into this pleasant work-ioom to see that all was right, 
before she obeyed the command of Mr. John, Violet went bound- 
ing down the stair, and out into the street. 

Mrs. McGarvie’s Tiger sat painfully on the very narrow step of 
the door, where he could be shaded from the sun; sat very upright 
and prim, poor fellow, compelled by this circumscribed space. Mrs. 
McGarvie’s pretty Helen, with her beautiful hair and her bare feet, 
on short time at the mill, lovingly clipped with Maggie McGillivray 
across the way, but was very languid under the full sunshine, and 
grew quite ashamed of herself as she watched with awe and admira- 
tion the vigorous shears of her companion; while Mrs. McGarvie in 
the easy dishabille of a loose short gown, shook her clinched hand 
at her daughter from the threshold, and called her an idle cuttie 
at the top of tier voice. 

It was a drowsy day, and some one looking very brown and dusty, 
came toiling down the sunny, unshaded road, 

“Eh, it’s Harry!” cried Violet Muir — and affectionately grasp- 
ing the pipe in one hand, she ran up the road to secure Harry with 
the other. 

“ Who’s to smoke the pipe? Lettie, you must go no more mes- 
sages like this, for you’re a young lady now,” said Harry, drawing 
himself up. “ Is it for that idle fellow, John Rodger? What a 
shame, Lettie!” 

“ He’s my friend; I like him best,” said Violet decidedly. 

“He’s a mean fellow!” said Harry. 4 See that you don’t go 
anywhere for him again!” 

- For Harry had just now been a little irritated. Some one had 
met him, who did not know his new dignity, and who in the old 
days had been the superior of Mr. Buchanan’s clerk; but having 
extinguished his wrath by this condemnation of poor John Rodger, 
and highly amused to notice the violent flush of anger wh ch rose 
upon the little defiant face of Lettie, Harry entered the house in 
great spirits. 

“ He’s turning steady, that lad,” said Mrs. McGarvie, looking 
after him with a sigh. “ I’m sure it’s a great blessing; and a’ body 
mends o’ their ill courses but our guid-man.” 

Harry had come by the coach; the economic tardiness of the 
canal was not necessary to Harry now; and except that he was sun- 
burned, and hot, and dusty, the quick inquisitive eye of Rose de- 
cided in a moment that there was nothing in his appearance to-day 
to rouse Martha’s suspicions. 

“Don’t let Lettie run about so,” said Harry, when their first 
greetings were over. “It is great presumption of those Rodgers : 
don’t let her go errands for them. Lettie is clever, Martha; we 
must make something of her. And now, when will you all go 
home?” 

“ Is that all that remains now, Harry?” exclaimed Agnes, clap- 
ping her hands. “ May we go at once? Is it so near as that?” 

“ Well, 1 don’t think you should,” said Harry. “ Let me get all 
the alterations made, and the place furnished, and then you can 
4 




98 


HARRY MUIR. 


come- But Charteris said be was sure you would like better to be 
there at once, and have a hand in the improvements; so 1 promised 
him to give you your choice.” 

“ Oh, surely! Lei us go now,” said Agnes. 

“Eh, I would like!” echoed little Violet. 

“ But 1 should not like,” said Harry. “ 1 want you to go when 
the place is complete and worthy of you. If you saw it now, you 
would think it a dingy, melancholy desert; but just wait for a month 
or so! There is a good deal of wood to be cut down, and they tell 
me tiie estate maybe much improved; and to have a thousand 
pounds to begin with, you know, is great good fortune. There is 
a new church building close by— l think of giving them a hundred 
pounds, Marl ha.” 

“ A hundred pounds!” exclaimed Agnes and Rose. 

The eyes of both were wet. It was so great a gladness to be able 
to give such a gift, and then to propose it was so good of Harry! 
They were both overpowered with his liberality. 

“A Syrian ready to perish was my father,” said Maltha, slowly. 
“Yes, it is very ht you should bring the handful of first-traits; but 
bring it justly, Harry. Spare it. Do not give it to the church and 
spend it too.” 

“ Martha is thinking of our old fifteen pounds a quarter,” said 
Harry gayly. ” Martha forgets that you don’t need to put off an 
account to pay your seat rent now, Agnes. Why, only think of a 
thousand pounds— what a sum it is! It seems to me as if we could 
never spend it. Look here, Lettie.” 

And Harry triumphantly exhibited a hundred-pound note. No 
one present had ever seen such a one before; and simple Harry, 
with a touch of most innocent pride, had preferred this one piece of 
paper to the more useful smaller notes, simply to let them see it, 
ami to dazzle their eye3 with a whole hundred pounds of their own. 

” Eh, Harry L' exclaimed Violet, with reverential eyes fixed on 
Harry’s new pocket-book, “ is’t a’ there?” 

Harry laughed, and closed the book; but they all looked at it a 
little curiously, and even Agnes felt a momentary doubt as to 
whether a thousand — ay, or even a hundred — pounds were very safe 
in Harry’s keeping. 

11 No, it’s not all here, ” answered the heir; ” it’s all in the bank 
but this. Now, Agnes, am I not to have any tef ? And we must 
consult about it all The improvements will cost some two hun- 
dred pounds, then we’ll say a hundred and fifty to furnish the 
drawing-room — that’s very moderate. Then — there are already 
some things in the dining-room— say a hundred for that, and 
another hundred for the rest of the nouse. How much is that. 
Little?” 

Lettie was counting it up on her fingers. 

“ Eh, Harrv, what a heap of siller!” 

44 Five hundred and fifty, and this,” said Harry, complacently 
laying his finger on his pocket-book, ** six; and a hundred to the 
kirk, seven hundred and fifty, and say fifty pounds for a good 
horse ana Lettie’s pony, and somewhere near a hundred for a car 
riage, and then— whew! there's nothing left, 1 must begin to cal- 
culate again— a thousand ponndk— ” 


HARRY MUIR. 


99 


“ But Hairy, you said it 'was only nine hundred,” said Rose. 

“ Well, bo it is— it’s all the same. What's a hundred here or 
there?” said Harry the Magnificent. “ 1 must just make my cal- 
culations Over again— that’s all.” 

“ But can people incumbered as you are afford to keep a carriage 
on four hundred and fifty pounds a year? ’ asked Martha. 

“ Oli, not in the town, of course; but the country is quite differ- 
ent. Besides, Allenders will improve to any extent: and 1 suppose 
I may double my income very soon. Don’t fear, Martha, we’ll be 
very careful— oh, don’t be afraid.” 

And Harry, sincerely believing that no one need be afraid, went 
on in his joyous calculations— beginning always, not a whit dis- 
couraged, when he discovered again and again that he was- calculat- 
ing on a greater sum than he possessed; but it soon became very 
apparent, even with Harry’s sanguine arithmetic, that L was by nD 
means a difficult thing to spend a thousand pounds, and a slight 
feeling ot discontent that it was not another thousand suddenly 
crossed the minds of all. 

“ 1 see,” said Harry, slowly, “ it’ll have to be fifty to the church, 
Martha. Fifty is as much as I can afford. It would not. be just 
to myself and to you all to give more.” 

Poor Harry! The magnificence of liberality was easier to give up 
than the other magnificences on which he had set his heart. 


CHAPTER XXL 

But hark you, Kate, 
Whither I go, thither shall you go too; 
To-day will I set forth, to-morrow you. 


Henry IF. 


“What could you do in Allenders? one never knows how to 
deal with you capricious women. Stay at home, Agnes, and man- 
age your own department- -it is impossible you could assist me, and 
you would only be a hindrance to work. Stay at home, 1 say, till 
the place is i eady tor you.” 

A^nes laid down the child softlv upon the sofa where she was 
sitting and answered nothing; but her face wore a look ot resig- 
nat ion* which Harry thought ostentatious, and which irritated him 
greatly as indeed his little wife partly knew. 

He ‘started hastily from his seat with a contracted brow, and 
be^an to walk about the room, muttering something to himself about 
the impossibility ot pleasing everybody. Poor little Agnes was des- 
peratelv exerting herself io swallow r a sob; she did feel a little fret- 
ful and peevish, it was very true, but at the same time she honestly 
struggled to keep it down. 

“ Martha, say something,” whispered Rose. Harry is angry— 

speak to him, Maitlia.” , .„ . 

But Maitha sat still ana said nothing— for Harry s magnificent 
intentions troubled his sister with an uneasy sense of dependence. 
It is oftentimes a greater exercise of generosity to receive than to 
bestow Laboring for Hairy would have seemed to Martha a thing 
so natural as never to disturb her eveiy-day life for a moment; to 


HARRY MUIR. 


100 

be supported by Harry, called tor a stronger exertion. But Harry's 
sister was of a stouter spirit than Harry's wife. She preferred, even 
at a risk of great pain, to make trial quietly of this new life, rather 
than to s&y how irksome to her was the prospect of burdening her 
brother, and to undergo a scene of indignation, and grief, and rec- 
oncilement. Nevertheless, Martha felt her influence abridged, and 
was silent— for this fortune did not change her own position or that 
of her sisters. Harry and his wife alone were rightful sharers of 
this unexpected elevation, and Martha stepped down from the elder 
sister’s place, not without a struggle, and endeavored to turn her 
eyes, which had so long expressed tne distinct decisions of a separate 
will,’ toward the young irresolute pair beside ber as to the heads of 
the house. 

“ Why don’t you speak, Martha?” exclaimed Harry at last, 
noticing her silence with a renewed burst of impatience. “ Why 
don’t you say what you think at once, instead of sitting glooming 
at us all?” 

“1 do not speak because 1 begin now to be your dependent, 
Harry,” said Martha, with harsh emphasis; ‘‘and especially in a 
matter where I and these bairns may restrict and hinder you, must 
now choose to listen to your decision, and not try to influence it. 
That is why I do not speak. But what 1 think is, that Agnes, since 
she wishes it, should go with you, and that we can remain to do all 
that is necessary here. Or 1 can take them home to Ayr— anywhere 
— and Agnes will like to be with you in your plannings and altera- 
tions, Harry. Why should she not go?” 

‘ s A dependent!” Harry looked very indignant and injured. 

“ Stay,” said Martha. ” Nothing more of this. A woman needs 
to be so. 1 am willing; but 1 prefer that nothing should be said of 
it, Harry, especially now, when 1 am scarcely accustomed to the 
change.” 

A. long silence followed, and each individual heart there was 
busy with its own proper thoughts, Martha, ever proud and harsh, 
repeated to herself the many necessities which compelled her to re- 
main an inmate of Harry’s house, and to relinquish the work by 
which she had hitherto supporetd herself— she, who, small as her 
opportunities were, had always conferred. but never received, the 
benefits of ordinary life; and there came vividly upon her memory 
those old dreams of youth, in which she had imagined herself the 
support, the guardian, the protector of the orphan children who 
were her charge in the world. Now she was Harry’s dependent 
sister, curbing and burdening his hands, and restraining the harm- 
less indulgences he longed for. Martha was not content, not will- 
ing, not ready, like a gentler woman, to take upon herself this gra- 
cious yoke of love, and receive with 3Weet and becoming humility 
the gifts which she could not refuse; hut she bent her stubborn 
neck to them, and reminded herself of her new position, with a 
strong resolve to do all its duties — cliiefest of all to cover over in 
her own heart, so that no one could discern it., the bitterness she felt. 

Harry, pleased to find himself not only the most important person 
in the household, but the maintainer and the acknowledged head of 
all, and only half angry that Martha should speak of herself as his 
dependent; Agnes, thinking solely that now she had gained her 



HARRY MUIR. 


101 


point, and should go with him to Allenders; Rose, full of new fears 
and new hopes, unwilling to realize all that was in her mind; anti 
little Lettie, last of all, chivalrously determined to win, by some un- 
known means, a fortune and fame for her sisters, far better than 
Harry’s, surrounded this center figure of the family group. In all 
minds there was a vague dissatisfaction. This great inheritance, 
after all, like everything else which deeply disturbs a life, brought 
new troubles, no less than new pleasures, in its train. 

But Harry made no further resistance to Agnes’ desire. An in- 
voluntary consciousness that it would be ungracious and unkind to 
decide contrary to Martha’s opinion, alter she had acknowledged 
his authority, had greater effect upon his impulsive mind than the 
reasonable wish of his wife; for Harry came to do much of what 
was really right in his conduct by side motives and impulses, and 
oftener made a start in his direct course by an impetus from some 
diverging way, than kept steadily on, because be knew that bis path 
was the straight one. But Agnes did not pause to consider the mo- 
tive. It was enough to her that her point was gained. 



CHAPTER XXII. 


How does your garden grow? 




With silver bells and cockle-shells, 
And pretty maids all of a row. 


Nursery Rhyme. 


It is a bright May day, and the home-garden at Ayr is as bright 
as the season. Upon tbe fresh soft breeze the falling petals of the 
apple- blossoms sweep down, fluttering like snowflakes to tbe 
ground; and the great pear tree trained against the wall is flushed 
to the extremity of every bough, and has its leaves smothered in 
its wealth of bloom. By the door h6re, in the sunshine, is the chair 
in which Alexander Muir presides over his little flock ot workers, 
and a book held open by his spectacles still rests upon it; but the 
old man himself is not here. Neither are the girls here, you would 
say at the first glance; but look closer into the shady corners, and 
listen only five minutes -it is all you need to discover your mistake. 
There are pleasant sounds in the air; softened young voices and 
light hearted laughter; and at the foot of Uncle Sandy's chair lies a 
heap of muslin, ballasted with stones, to keep it safe and preserve 
it from being blown away; for Beatie and her sisterhood are idle, 
extremely idle, and idle even, it must be confessed, is Rose, the 
viceroy, to whom Uncle Sandy has delegated his charge. They are 
whispering together, little groups of bright heads, which here and 
there, the sunshine, stretching over the boughs of the great plane- 
tree, finds out and seizts on, tracing a single curl or braid ot hair 
with delicate gold, and throwing wavy shadows over brow and faee. # 
They are dispersed in all the corners of the garden; but here, lean-* 
ing against the trunk of the plane-tree, flushed with natural grati- 
fication, confidential and yet dignified, stands Rose Muir, the center 
of the most important group. 

Once these girls were little Rosie’s playmates; now, though Rose 
is not proud, she feels no less than they do, that there is a differ- 


102 


HARRY MUIR. 


ence, and quite acquiesces when they call her Miss Rose, and are 
re^ectlul as well as friendly. She is standing, with a little of a 
patroness air, listening while Mary Burness tells of Maggie Craw- 
foid’s “ lad,” and Maggie retaliates by a rumor that Mary is to be 
“ cried ” in the kirk the very next Sabbath day. Rose laughs a lit- 
tle, blushes a little, and looks so happy and liirbt-hearted. that you 
perceive at once she could not tell you why— but that there is some 
unconscious reason of still greater might than the family good fort- 
une which brings back the natural joy so freshly to her heart. 

By this open window you hear the sound of voices graver and 
less youthful. Within, with her hand wandering among the old 
man’s books, sits Martha Muir Her other hand holds a piece of 
her acustomed work, but it lies on her knee listlessly; and with the 
unconsciousness of preoccupation she turns over and over the books 
upon the window shelf— old familiar books, friends which nurt- 
ured and strengthened her own youth — but her hand wanders over 
them as though they were strangers, and she could not tell you 
what she looks at with those fixed eyes. 

“ 1 hope.it is all over, uncle,” said Martha, slowly; 44 1 trust it is 
— I trust it is. He has had hard lessons, many of them, and a great 
and sudden deliverance. The news of it came to me like an angel 
from heaven— for l felt that it might save Harry; and so, I hope, 1 
trust, it will.” 

44 You hope, you trust? we all do that, Martha, my woman,” said 
the old man, anxiously. 44 1 never kent an evil-doing stranger yet 
that I would not have given all the strength of my good wishes to; 
but, Martha, God has given you a clearer judgment than many. 
YVliat think ye? what does your ain mind decide as the most likely 
end?” 

44 God knows!” said Maltha, solemnly. 44 1 think nothing, 
uncle; 1 only trust and hope. 1 see no sin in him now — poor 
Harry! poor Hany! and God send the evil may pass away like the 
fearful dream 1 sometimes believe it is. Do you mind him, uncle 
— do you mind the pure, grand hoy he was?' Oh, my Harry! my 
poor Harry!— but 1 speak as it 1 was despairing, when, indeed, 1 
am full of hope,” said Martha, looking up with a taint smile, 
through the unusual tears which only moistened her dried eyelids, 
but did not fall. 

The old man looked at her doubtfully, wilh serious and earnest 
anxiety. She did not lift her eyes, neither did she seem inclined to 
say more; but her hand went wandering, wandering, over the books 
she knew so well, opening and closing them with such unconscious 
fingers, and mind so intently preoccupied, that he shook his head 
as he turned away, with a prayer, and a pang in his heart. For 
experience, alas! spoke to him as it spoke to her— sadly, hopelessly; 
and with Martha he turned from the subject, and would not think 
•—would only trust and hope. 

44 And the other bairns,” said the old man, halt questioning her, 
halt consoling himself, 44 the other bairns; they at least bring us 
nothing but comfort.” 

44 Uncte,” said Martha, looking up with quick curiositv, “ what 
brings this Mr. Chatteris to Ayr? what is his business here? VTe 


HARRY MUIR. 


103 


'iieet him wherever we go; what does he want in vour house or with 

lie 9 , 1 *■ 


“ What is it ye say, Martha?” 

Alexander Muir looked up with an awakened face, and glanced 
J out through the framework of leaves and blossoms round the win- 
dow to where his niece Hose stood under the great plane tree. 

Hush! look at them!” said Martha, grasping her uncle’s arm 
with her hand, and bending forward eagerly, as it the gesture made 
her hear as well as see. 

There is a stranger in the garden, lingering beside the vacant 
chair on the threshold, looking wistfully into the shaded corner, 
with its waving boughs and pursuing sunshine. Just now they 
are talking rather loud yonder, and laughing with unrestrained 
glee; and still it is stories of courtship and mirthful wooing which 
are told to Rose, and still she stands listening, well pleased, with 
smiles on her face, and in her heart. Rose could not tell you what 
it is that makes her step so light, her heart so tree. It. is something 
which touches duller pleasures into life, aud kindles them all with 
a touch of its passing wing. But it has passed in the night, this 
| angel, when she only felt its plumes, and heard its sweet unrecog- 
nized voice; and as yet she has not seen the face of this new affec- 
tion, nor blushes as she lifts her own, frankly to all kindly eyes; 
yet with the greater zest she listens to these girlish romances, and 
I * smihs, aud ask questions— questions which the blushing subject of 
the story does not always refuse to answer; but just now the nar- 
rator has become rather loud, and there is a burst of laughter which 
good Uncle Sandy would reprove from his window, if he were not 
more seriously engaged. 

Suddenly there falls a complete silence on the little group, broken 
only after the first moment by an indistinct tittering^ of confusion 
and bashtulness, as one by one the} 7 steal away, leaving Rose alone 
under the plane tree — and the stranger advances at a singular pace, 
which seems to be composed of two eager steps and one slow one, 
toward her, as she stands, half-reluctant, with her head drooped 
and the light stealing warmly over her cheek, waiting to receive 
him. 

As he advances the color rises on his forehead. It may be be- 
cause he is aware of some close scrutiny, but however that is, Cutli- 
bert Charteris, who can pass with the utmost coolness through 
every corner of the Parliament House, and make his appearance 
before the Lords who rule fler Majesty’s Court of Session without 
a vestige of shyness, grows very red and lets his glove fall, as he ad- 
vances to this audience. And the sympathetic Rose blushes too, 
and hangs down her head, and gives her hand reluctantly, and wishes 
she w T ere anywhere but here, seeing any other person than Mr. 
Charteris. Why? For after all, there is nothing formidable about 
the Edinburgh advocate, and he has been her brother’s friend. 

Martha’s hand again tightened on the old man’s arm; then it was 
slowly withdrawn, and she sat still, looking at them earnestly — 
looking at them in their fair youth, and with their fresh hopes 
round them, like a saint's encircling glory— so great a contrast to 



i ( 


Well, Martha, well,” said the old man, in a lighter tone, 



HARRY MUIR. 


104 

“ well, my woman— no doubt neithei you nor me have anything to 
do with the like of this; but it is good, like every ordinance of God. 
It Rosie, poor thing, gets a good man, she’ll do well; and we need 
not be vexed for that, Martha.” 

“ He is a gentleman, uncle, and not a rich one. They’ll want him 
to have a rich wife,” said Martha. 

“ Be content— be content; one fear is over much to foster. We’ll 
have no grief with Rosie,” said Uncle Sandy, cheerfully. 41 If he 
turns out well, she’ll do well, Martha; but it he turns out ill, we 
must leave her now to God’s good care and her ain judgment. And 
what could we have better for her? But 'we need not leave them 
their lane, either. I will go and see after the other bairns myself.” 

So saying, the old man rose, and Martha lifted her work — but in 
a few minutes it again dropped on her knee, and opening the win- 
dow she bent out, and suffered the pleasant air to bathe her forehead, 
and smooth out the wrinkles which care had engraven on it. “ Take 
care of them, take care of them!” said Martha, under her breath. 
“ God iielp me! 1 trust more in my own care than in His.” 

44 Ye’re aye idle— aye idle. Do they never come back to you in 
your dreams the lees ye tell me, and the broken promises?” said 
Uncle Sandy. 44 And Beatie, 1 had your faithful word that all that 
flower was to be done before the morn.” 

“ Eh, but it was the gentleman,” said Beatie, with conscious 
guilt, laboring at her muslin with great demonstration of industry. 

44 The gentleman! He came in himsel’. He gave you no trouble,” 
said the old man, shaking his head. 44 And } r ou’ve been doing 
naething either, Jessie Laing.” 

41 Eh! me! I’ve weeded a’ the strawberry beds, though there’s 
naething on them yet but the blossom,” said the accused, in discon- 
tent; 44 and Mary, and Maggie, and the rest of them, telling Miss 
Rose about their lads a’ the time— and naebody blamed but me!” 

44 Miss Rose has gotten a lad o’ her ain— eh! look at the gentle- 
man!” said another of the sisterhood, in an audible w hisper. 

For Rose had been playiDg with a sprig of fragrant lilac, which 
just now, as she started at sight of her uncle, fell upon the path at 
her foot; and, with a deferential bend, w r hich every girl who saw it 
took as a personal reverence to herself, and valued accordingly, Mr. 
Charteris stooped to pick up the fallen blossom, and by and by 
quite unobtrusively placed it in his breast. 

Uncle Sandy lifted his book, and seated himself, casting a glance 
of good pleasure toward the plane tree, from which Rose was now 
approaching the door. Rot a girl of all those workers who did not 
observe intently, and with an interest hardly less than her own 
41 lad ” received from her, every look and motion of 44 the gentle- 
man.” Rot one of them who would not have intrigued in iiis be- 
half with native skill and perseverance, had any of the slock obsta- 
cles of romance stood in Cuthbert’s way. It was pleasant to see the 
shy, smiling, blushing interest with which they regarded the 
stranger and liis Lady Rose; something resembling the instinctive, 
half-pathetic tenderness with wdiich women comfort a bride; but 
with more glee in it than that. 

By and by, w’lien these young laborers were gone, and the 
shadows w r ere tailing over the garden, where little Lettie and Uncle 


HARRY MUIR. 


105 


Sandy’s maid scattered pleasant sounds and laughter through the 
dim walks, as they watered Uncle Sandy’s dearest dowers, Cuthbert 
Charleris unwillingly rose from the dim seat by the window, whence 
he could iust see Violet at her self-chosen task, and said irresolutely 
that he must be gone. The window was open. They had been sit- 
ting for some time silent, and the wind, which blew r in playtu ly, 
matting a little riot now and then as it lighted unexpectedly upon 
the fluttering pages of an open book, was sweet with the breath ^of 
many glimmering hawthorns, and of that great old lilac bush a 
garden and inheritance in itseli-which filled he eastern corner, 
and hid the neighboring house with its delicate leaves and b los^ 
soms. Opposite to him, Cuthbert still saw the white ha of lie old 
man and something of Martha’s figure withdrawn by his side, but 
out of a pleasant darkness which his imagination 
ly, had come once or twice the , voice of Rose. He could not see 
her, it had grown so dark, nor could he do more than feel a little 
soft hand glide into his, when lie bade her good-night. 

It had a singular charm, this darkness and Cllt J lb % t 1 fJ n aS ^ e e ^ t e ^ 
hand firmly and closely before it drew itself away. Then he went 

out into the soft summer night with its sweet dews n^hiTsnfe soft 
smile was on his face, his very heart was wrapped m this jjafe soft 
flagrant floom and he went on unconsciously till lie reached the 
river an/stood there, looking down upon the gentle water, flowing 
graciously, with a sweet ripple, under the pensive stars. 

" His hand upon his breast touched the lilac blossom. He drew it 
out to look at it, ar.d held it idly in his fingers, for the p brst J i bo 1 u f^ 
was to drop the fading flower into those pure coid waters and let it 
float away toward that sea which is the great symbol lo : all ^epths. 
But Cuthbert’s second thought, more usual it not more true; was 
to restore the drooping blossom, and keep it, though it f acted, ana 
then making an effort to shake off the pleasant myst.c darkness 
which hid him from himself, Cuthbert Chaiteris roused his dieam- 

ino* heart and asked what he did there. , 

What brought him here? The same question which Martha had 
nut to her uncle. No one saw Cuthbert blush; no one was witness 
to the conscious smile which rose in spite of himself upon his lip. 
What brought him here? In fact, the slightest possible piece of 
tofness wlich at any other time-a letter might havo managed; 
Put in truth what was it, Cuthbert? , . . 

And straightway the thoughts ot Cuthbert Chatteris plunged into 
a lug discursWe journey, calculating probabilities, prospec s 
necessities- but through all wavered thi3 conscious smile, and he 
teTt the wkrm flush on his face, and looked, as Rose had never 

theln^ the' young Not fervent enough 

for'passion^yet^nor 1 man-strong as it -uW he-charmed fMcinatod 

strength of his. 


106 


HARRY MUIR. 


CHAPTER XX111. 

A home to rest, a shelter to defend. 

Pleasures of Hope. 

The evening sun shines into the drawing-room of Allenders — the 
drawing room newly completed and magnificent, through which 
Harry Muir’s little wife goes merrily, laughing aloud as she pauses 
to admire again and again those luxurious easy-cliairs aud sotas, 
which it is almost impossible to believe are her own. It is a long 
room .occupying the whole breadth of the house, for Harry has 
taken Cuthbert’s hint, and thrown down the partition which once 
made two dim bed-chambers, where now is this pretty drawing- 
room. 

From the western window you can see the long light stealing over 
Bannockburn, tracing bright lines of softened green and yellow 
along the wide strath, aud laying down upon the swelling fields as 
it passes away such a depth of dewy rest and shadow as never lay 
in any land of dreams. And the liill-teps are dusty and mazed with 
the rays which stream over them, a flood of golden streaks, falling 
out of the light like drooping hail; while neaier, at our very feet, 
as we stand by this window, the burn below flashes out through the 
heavy alder boughs, in such sweet triumph over its crowning sun- 
beam, that you unconsciously smile in answer to its smiling, as you 
would 10 any other childish joy. 

From the other window you can look out upon JDemeyet, some- 
what sullenly receiving the radiance of the sunset. He, stout rebel, 
loves better the young morning, whose earliest glance is over his 
head, before her eyelids are fully' opened. How r she glances up play- 
fully behind him, how she shrinks under bis great shoulder, you 
will see, when you see the sun rise upon the Liuks of Forth. But 
Demeyet, like many another, does not know when fortune is Kindest 
to him, nor ever guesses that he himself, with those royal purple 
tints upon his robed shoulders, and the flitting shades which cover 
his brow, like the waving of a plume, shows his great form to bet- 
ter advantage now, than when the faint morning red, and the rising 
light behind, darken him with his own shadow. Wherefore 
Demeyet receives the sunlight sullenly, and glooms upon merry 
Agnes Muir at the window of Allenders' drawing-room, 1 ill she can 
almost fancy that he lifts a shadowy arm, and clinches a visionary 
hand to shake it at her threateningly with defiance and disdain. 

A silver tea-service, engraven with the Allengers’ crest, and china 
the most delicate that Agues ever sav\% glitter on the table, w^hicli is 
covered besides with every rare species of “ tea-brand ” known to 
the ingenious bakers of Stirling. Aud now Agnes glides round and 
round the table, endeavoring" to recollect, some one thing omitted, 
but can not find any excuse for ringing the bell and summoning one 
of her handmaidens to get. another survey of the tout ensemble, 
which dazzles the eyes of the little wife. Harry has gone to Stirling 
to meet and bring homc.his sisters; and Uncle Sandy, their escort 


HARRY MUIR. 


107 


and guardian, is with them for a visit; and so is poor ttle Katie 
Calder, the oppressed attendant of Miss Jean It is true tliat Ag e 
is very affectionate and very giateful— that, herself motherless she 
clina S y to Martha, and would immediately succumb in any at i ait to 
the stronger mind, and character, and will of the eldest member of 
their little household; but withal, r».gnes is mortal and it is ^pos- 
sible to deny that there is auite a new and delightful pleasure to her 
to [eJlU Serselt. and in having others feel, that it to her house , to 
which the sisters aie coming home—that she is of 

family, the house-mother, and that all the glories of this grandest ot 

Pa »ow Tta'lni moling of distant carriage-wheels sfrikes^the 

excited ear ot Agnes, but no carriage is visible from the windows 
s^she runs impltiently up some flights of narrow winding stairs, 
and S ou Title**, upon the gallery, which conducts to 
the imie furiet of Allenders. This gallery is very sma 1- three 
neonle standing in it would make quite a little crowd; but then it 
conmmnds 1 a far-off view of the Forth, beyond A loa m one * JJ* 
tion, and of Stirling’s crowned rock, and the 
what is still more important, at this moment, ot the Stirling road, 

0n And°voncier along the white line of the Sli.ling road, seen at 
present only in a glimpse through the trees, comes that pretty open 
cama-e the price of which Hairy is afraid to think of his latest 
purchase with its strong bay horse and its smart groom driver be- 
side whom Harry himself, still wise enough to acknowledge that he 
can Tot drive sits leaning back, to point out triumphantly to the 
crowded company behind him the first glimpse ot their new home. 
Martha and Uncle Sandy, Rose and the two children, till the coach 
almost to overbrimming; and though they are all dusty and hot 
fwe Le bright 'ooks on every face ot them. But Agnes does not 
pause to look at the r faces, but flies down-stairs, nearly tripping 

the bright green lawn °* 4’ 1 f ToTonger '^arnla bed , 


HARRY MUIR. 


108 

fretted and broken by twining boughs and foliage, for (hat is the 
river— the grand Forth— and this is iairy land! 

“Oh, Martha, Martha! Rose! Uncle!” cried Agnes, running 
forward to the carriage-door; but»as Martha alighted, and took both 
her hands, the young house-mother forgot her dignity, and instead 
of the pretty speech she had been meditating, only exclaimed again: 
“ Oh, Martha, Martha!” and burst into a fit of tears. 

Laughing, sobbing, smiling, Agnes led them upstairs, and hur- 
ried them through all the rooms. A pretty apartment, looking 
to the river, had been chosen for Martha and Rose, while a smaller 
one within it was for the children. They were all perfectly and 
carefully fitted up— alas! far Harry’s nine'hundred pounds. 

‘Bairns, 1 will ask a blessing,” said Uncle Sandy, as they 
gathered round the tea-table. 

There was an instant hush, and Rose shrouded little Harry's head 
with her hand, and pressed him closer to her side, to still even the 
child into reverent silence. She was seated close by the old man, 
and he, too, raised one hand to shade his reverent forehead, and 
solemnly lifted the other. 

“ Lord, a blessing on these offered mercies, a blessing on this roaf- 
tree, upon our meeting and our sundering, and upon these Thy 
bairns, fatherless and motherless, whom Thou hast led hitherto, 
and brought pitifully unto this day. Give them out of the ark of 
Thy covenant, comfort them with strength, and succor from all 
evil, for the Lord’s sake. Amen.” 

There was a momentary solemn pause, after the voice ceased — 
and Rose bent down over the child to hide her face; and Agnes, 
witli the tears still in her eyes„ looked wistfully at the. old man; 
and Harry cast down his, and laid his hand softly on Martha’s hand. 
No one said there were fears and hopes— intensest hopes and fears 
in this new beginning— nor that its brightness trembled with a 
solemn peradventure; but at this moment, all had a consciousness 
of putting themselves and their fate into the hand of God, and of 
waiting for what He should bring out of those unknown years. 
“ 1 can not tell — God knows what is to come,” said Martha’s heart, 
as it yearned within her over them all; and there came to each a 
strange humifity and trust. God knows! one can look calmly into 
a future which, step by step, is known to our pitiful, great Father. 
Day by day — hour by hour — they must each of them come to us out 
of the heavens, full and rounded with the daily tribulation, the 
daily gladness which is appointed to their lot. But God knows 
now the way which we shall learn by single footsteps — knows and 
appoints it tor us out of His great love— God knows— it is very 
well. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Now is the May of life. 

Rogers. 

“ Eet, Violeti there’s twa men-servants, and twa maids!” said 
little Katie Calder. 

Katie was short and stout, with a plump, good-humored face, 
and wealth of long fair hair, and a bright-printed frock, bought for 


HARRY MUIR. 


109 


her bv Uncle Sandy himself, to replace the faded liveries of Miss 
Jean Katie had no turn for literature or poetry, like her little 
kinswoman; but to make up tor that, she was stout-hearted and 
adventurous, redoubtable in winter slides and summer rambles, and 
with as honest and “ aetauld ” a child’s heart as ever looked 
through blue eyes Miss Jean Calder and her penurious oppression 
had subdued Katie, but they had not crushed her; for Katie was 
not given to solitary thoughts or plaintive resignation, bo instead 
of standing shyly by, as Violet might have done, and looking on 
with a longing wish to join the plays of happier children, Katie 
made bold dashes among them, content rather to pay tor her play 
by a good fit of crying, when summoned in to the invariable scold, 
than to want altogether the wholesome “fun which was the 
child’s natural breath. So now, betug mepared by a few days 
freedom in Uncle Sandy’s house at Ayr; ,for the ilifcrty ^^kind- 
liness, t Hough scarcely for the grandeur ot AJlenders, Katie s happy 
spirit had entirely thrown off the fear and bondage of Miss Jean. 
She was sitting on a low stool halt-dressed, plaiting the long hair 
which streamed over her plump shoulders, and looking with great 
admiration at the new chintz irock carefully spread out upon a 
chair, which she had worn for the first time yesterday. 

“ Eh Katie! if you only saw how the sun s rising behind yon 
muckle hill!” answered Violet from the window. i4 

“ And vou never saw such a tine kilcben, pursued Katie, a 
the walls glittering with things, and as big as folk could • oance in ; 
and such a room with books down the stair. Did you think there 

was as mony in the world, Lett.ie?” „ , T 

“ But they’re no for reading,’’ said Vrnlet disconsolately, for I 
tried them last night; and 1 would rather have Mr. Sim s library 

in, 'We^e there stories in it? Eh, Violet, do you think there s ony 
fairv tales down the stair? for i like them, said Katie Calder, 
“ but it 1 put on my new trock the day, it’ll be no clean on Sab- 

ba “ h There’s S Rosedown in the garden— and tliere_s the old man that 
Harry calls Dragon,” cried Violet. “Come, Katie, and see the 

F °“ l U’s n no 0l so bonnie as our ain water at hame, and there’s nae 
brio-s ’’ said Katie, as she donned her new Irock, and anxiously ex- 
amined h to see whether yesterday’s journey had left any trace 
upon its bright folds; for ‘Katie was a thrifty little woman, and 
knew that she had no other dress worthy of A1 lenders. 

It was still very early. Rose had newly left the house and now 
stood alone under the ‘great shadow ot the walnut-tree, looking up 
at the windows, beyond which the greater part ot the hoiiseho 
were stiU asleep She had left Martha in a deep, quiet, dreamless 
dumber whichdid not begin till the sky was reddening over Deme- 
nt. and Rose who had just been congratulating herself on having 
Tfree unoccupied hour to think, stood now endeavoring with some 
confusion to recollect what it was she wanted to Ihmk about. Her 
mind was in a tumult of sweet morning fancies, and the something 
en wh7ch she had resolved to meditate, eluded her, with many a 
rkk an“, like a playful child. A slight wavering blush came 



110 


HARRY MUIR. 


over her face, as now and then she seemed to catch a glimpse of it 
for a moment ; but immediately it was lost again among the thick- 
coming taucies ot her stirred and wakening mind; yet strangely 
enough, Rose did not pass the library window, nor seek the mall by 
the water-side. Not very long agv». nothing could have interested 
her more than the river and the hills beyond; now she only threw 
herself down on the lawn beneath the walnut-tree, and leaning her 
Head on her hand, played with the grass on which her eyes were 
bent, and mused and pondered with a downcast face. Sometimes, 
indeed, hei eyes were closed, and even when she opened them the 
dreamer saw nothing of Alienders. No; for she was secretly mak- 
ing pictures which could not bear the eye of daj T , much less the 
inspection ot brother or sister; remembering, with such strange 
tenacity of recollection, what was done and what was said, on yon- 
der May evening in the garden at Ayr, and in the gloom of the little 
parlor, and unconsciously creating other scenes like that, in which 
the same chief actor bore the hero’s part. 

Rose! Rose! you would blush and start like guilt, did any home 
voice at this moment call your name; but the spell of this dreaming 
clings to you like slumber, and you can no more shake it oft, than 
you could the sweet deep sleep which last night surprised you 
against your will, and changed those waking musings into the fan- 
tastic visions of the night; and your eyes graw heavy, Rose, while 
your heart wanders in thi§ maze, and a soft uncertainty steals over 
your fair pictures, though with .a sudden start, half of displeasure, 
you hear the steps of the children hastening to join you, and give 
up your maiden meditations with a sigh. 

Behind the walnut-tree, the poor old Dragon feebly bends over 
the bower-beds, plucking up here and there, with an effort, a soli- 
tary weed, but oitenest looking idly toward Rose, whom he would 
fain go and speak to, were not her preoccupation so evident. The 
great walnut waves its large fragrant leaves in the soft morning air 
between them, and the sun burns in the gilded spear on the turret, 
and the broad light clothes the whole country like a garment. 
Strongly contrasted in this framework of summer life about them, 
are the two human creatures who complete the picture. The girl 
lingering on the ihreshold of a fail life unknown to her and peo- 
pling all its fairy world with scenes which thrill her to a half-con- 
scious joy; the old man in the torpor of great age, vacantly admir- 
ing her fresh youth, and with a strange, dim curiosity about lier, 
who she is, and what she would say it he addressed her. To him a 
long life has passed like a dream, and appears in a mist to his mem- 
ory, as in a mist it appears to her imagination; but the time is long 
past when anything could find out the old taint beating heart of 
Adam Comrie, to thrill it with emotion. His curiosities, bis likings, 
his thoughts, have all become vague as a child’s; but they lie on the 
surface, and never move him, as a child’s fancies do. 

“ See how the old man looks at Rose,” whispered Katie Calder; 
“ but she doesua see him yet; and, Violet, look at her. She’s bon- 
nie.” 

“ But what way is she sitting there?” said Violet, wonderingly, 
“ when she might be at the water-side. She’s ihinkiug about Harry; 
but what needs folk think about Harry now? Harry is in his bed. 


HARRY MUIR. 


Ill 


and sleeping, Rose; but, oht 1 see-you were not thinking about 

him after all,” , , _ 

Rose slaited with a vivid blush. No, indeed, she had not been 
thinking of Hairy; it sounded like an accusation. 

- And you’ll be yon bi ride’s Lady Rose?” said the Hi agon, com- 
ing forward. 1 ’ Aweel, 1 wadna say but he thought ye bonnier than 
my white bush; but they didna howk up the rose either; that’s ae 
comfort— though nae thanks to him, nor to this lad, Mr. Hairy, that 
took his counsel. What do they ca’ this little bairn? 

“ My name’s Violet,” said Let tie, with dignity. 

“ There was a Miss Violet in the last family; but she would have 
made six o’ that bit creature,” said the old servant. What way 

are ye a’ sae wee?” ,, . . , 4 . ~ . 

“ Eh, Lettie’s ahead higher than me!” exclaimed Katie Calder 

In amazement. . . .„ ... 

“ Are you gaun to be married upon yon birkie now, if ane might 
speer?” asked the feeble Dragon. “ I’ve lived about this house 
sixty year, but there hasna been a wedding a’ that time; and now 
bow I’m to do wi’ young wives and weaus 1 canna tell, ihe last 
Ailenders had a wife ance, folk say, but 1 never mind of her. He 
was ninety year auld when he died, and lived a widow three 
score years and five. I’m eighty mysel’, aud I never was mained. 
It’s aye best to get ower the like o’ that when folk s young; but 
you’re just a lassie yet; you should wait awhile, and be sicker; and 
yon birkie has nae reverence for the constitution. 1 m an awfu 
guid hand for judging a man, and 1 ken as muckle by what he said 

about the windows.” , . , Tr . linf 

“ Eh, Rose, is’t Mr. Charteris that’s the birkie? cried \ lolet, 

with extreme interest. 

But Rose had risen from the grass, and now leaned unon the 
walnut-tree, vainly trving to look serious and indifferent. This face 
which had been eluding her dreams so long, looked in gravely now 
upon her heart ; and Rose trembled and blushed, and could not 
speak, but had a stiong inclination to run awaj somewhere under 
.cover of the leaves, and weep a tew tearB out of her dazzled eyes 
and sooths her heart into calmer beating. The old man chuckled 
once more in childish exultation. . 

“I’ll no tell — ye may tiust me — and if ye Jl come in ower, i 11 
let you see the white rose bush that garred yon birkie name ye to 
tne. Whaur are ye for. you little a nest its the boat the bauns 



limes ill ct tidy 9 A Hi uv/ aii 1 /l* 1 a na 

again-it doesna stand to reason that a wean s life should be as 

valuable to this witless world as the life of au aged man. 
bad muckle experience in my day— muckle expenence. Miss Rose ; 
and aye Had to communicate, as the apostle bids, and ready to gi e 
counset w* nae mair pride than il 1 had seen but ae score o’ years 
instead of four. It’s a great age.” 

“ And do they call you Dragon?” asked Violet, shyly. 

“ That’s what they ca’ me; tor I’ve lang keepit Ailenders, and 
been a carefu’ man of a’ in il, from the master himself to the berry 
bushes; hut my right name is Edom Comrie, if onybody likes to be 


112 


HARRY MUIR. 


so civil as ca’ me that. I’m saying, wee missie, do ye think I could 
carry ye? but I’m no so strong as 1 was forty year ago.” 

“ You could carry little Harry; but 1 can rin, and so can Katie 
Calder,” said Violet. 

“ Wha’s Katie Calder?” 

“ It’s me,” answered the little stranger; “ and I’m Lettie Muir’s 
third cousin; and I’m to stay at Allenders, and no to go back to 
Miss Jean any more.” 

*' YYeel, ye maun baithbe guid bairns. 1 like guid bairns mysel’,” 
said the old man; “and ye can just come to me when ye want a 
piece scone or a wheen berries, and there’s nae fears o’ ye; and I’ll 
aye gie them an advice. Miss Rose, and mind them of their duty. 
Ye needna be feared but I’ll do grand with the bairns.” 

‘‘ Do you live in the house?” asked Rose, a little timidly, for she 
was somewhat alarmed at the second sight of the poor old Dragon. 

“ That minds me ye havena seen my room,” said Dragon, briskly. 
** Come your ways round — ay, I just live in Allenders — and gie 
me a haud o’ your hands, bairns, and Miss Rose will come after us, 
and ye’ll get a sight of my house.” 

So the soft, warm, childish hands glided into the withered fingers 
of the old man, and Rose followed, passing by the luxuriant white 
rose-bush, now blooming in the full flush of its snowy flowers under 
the new window of the dining-room, into a little court-yard behind 
where was the stable and byre, and where Mysie, the Dragon’s 
grand-niece, was just then milking the cow. This great temptation, 
Violet and Katie withstood wornanfully, and passing the milk-pail 
and the active hands which filled it, with an effort, looked round 
somewhat impatiently for the Dragon’s den. 

“ Ye maun come up here,” said the old man, “ ane at a time— - 
ane at a time— and if ye’re light-headed, take a grip o’ the wa’, for 
folk aTe whiles dizzy on an outside stair; and now here you see 1 
have like a wee house all to mysel’.” 

The “ outside stair ” was very narrow and much worn; it was 
evident it had undergone no repair in all Harry’s labors, and Rose 
was fain to grasp herself at a withered branch of ivy which still 
clung to the wall, though life and sap had long departed from it, to 
secure her own safe passage upward, and to stretch out her arm on 
the other side in terror for the children. Adam Comrie’s room was 
only the loft over the stable, a square low place, with bare rafters 
and a skylight in the roof; but Adam’s bed was iu one corner, and 
on a little table, immediately under the window, stood a bowl, ready 
for Adam’s porridge, and the little round pot in which he made 
them, was beside his lit tie fire. 

“ For ye see when it behooved me tolivea’thegether at Allenders, 
the auld maister caused build me a bit grate into the wall. 1 was a 
young lad then, and might have taken my meat in the kitchen with 
Eppie, but 1 aye was of an independent Kind, and 1 had mair faith 
in my ain parritch and kail than iu onybody else’s; so I came to be 
a constant residenter here; and there’s the Lady’s Well no a dizzen 
yards from the stair fit, and the kitchen very near hand. Do ye like 
stories? Weel, I’ll lell ye some day the story o’ the Lady’s Well.” 

“ Eh, Dragon, it’s a fairy-tale?” asked Katie Calder, with wide* 
open eyes. 


HARRY MUIR. 


113 


“ Xaebody can tell that; but 1 have plenty of fairy-tales,” said 
the old man. “ Ye see, it was in the auld times, may be twa hun- 
dred year ago, or mair siller, that the Laird of Allenders had a young 
daughter, and her name was— ay, Miss Rose, that’s my meal ark— 
it doesna baud muckle, aboon a peck at a time; and here’s where I 
keep my bannocks, and 1 have a wee kettle and a pickle tea and 
sugar there; and tor the greens 1 have just to gang down to the gar- 
den and cut them, nae leave asked, and my drap milk brought reg- 
ular to the very door. Ye see I’m weel off, and I’m ready to own 
it and be thankfu’, instead of graneing forever like some folk — for 
I’m real comfortable here.” 

” And have you no friends?” asked Rose. 

*’ Weel, there’s Mysie down there, milking the cow, and there’s 
her father, my sister’s son. Eh, to see the ill the warld and a’ 
family do to a man! for there’s that lad Geordie Paxton, no fifty 
year auld, and he’s a mair aged man than me — ‘ for such shall have 
sorrow in the flesh,’ the apostle says, and never being married my- 
sel’, ye see, and keeping up nae stroke wi’ far-off kin, that’s a’ the 
friends, except a cousin, Here and there, that 1 hae.” 

*' And does naebody ever come to see you?” asked Katie. 

‘‘No a creature— wha should mind me, a silly auld man?” an- 
swered the Dragon, with a momentary pathos in his tone. “ And 
1 couldna be fashed wi’ strangers either, and you see 1 hae a’thing 
within mysel’, milk and meal, board and bed, sae that I’m nae- 
ways dependent on either fremd-folk or friends; but ye may speak 
for me if you like, Miss Rose, to Mr. Hairy for a book whiles. 
There’s grand, solid bo)ks yonder of the auld maister’s, and there’s 
aue or twa that 1 found out no lang syne that wadna do for the like 
of you— 1 wouldna consent to lead away the young wi’ them; but 
they do weel enough to divert an auld man that has experience of 
the world, and kens gu id from evil; and I’ll promise faithful to 
burn every word o’ them when I’ve ta’en the divert mysel’. Here’s 
ane, ye see. I wadna let you read it, and you a young lassie; but ye 
may look at its name.” 

And looking, Rose discovered in the charred bundle of leaves 
which lay on the old man’s hob, and lighted his fire, a torn “ Vicar 
of Wakefield.” 

“ Eh, I’ve read that!” said Violet, under her breath, and Violet 
looked on with horror as if at a human sacrifice. 

‘‘Every morning, when I take a page for my light, I read it 
first,” said the Dragon, chuckling; “ there’s that muckle diversion 
in’t; but it’s no for you— it’s no for the like of you.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Neither a borrower nor a lender be, 

For borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. 

Hamlet. 

“ Harry, my man, you must be canny with the siller,” said 
Uncle bandy. ” It’s a snare to the feet of many — and mind, Ibis 
fortune brings such a change in your case, that there is a danger of 
you thinking it greater than it is.” 


114 


HARRY MUIR. 


“ No fear, uncle, ,s said Harry, pausing in liis new land-proprie- 
tor mood to cut down a thistle with a swinging blow of his cane. 
*• No fear, I say. I’ll live up to my income, but then that is per- 
fectly legitimate, for the estate does" not die with me. Just now, 
of course, there are a number of expenses which never will be re- 
newed in my time— all this improvement and furnishing— and that 
may straiten me for a year, perhaps — but then 1 expected that; 
and 1 don’t want to hoard and lay up money, uncle.” 

Nor would I want that, Harry,” said the old man; “ far from 
it — but mind— 

“ ‘ No for to hide it in a hedge, 

Nor for a train attendant, 

But for the glorious privilege 
Of being independent.’ 

1 am not a man to blaw about independence, Harry; and even Rob- 
ert Burns himself, poor man, speaks of Ins ain in a way that pleases 
me little— but it’s a grand thing to feel that you’re standing on your 
ain feet, and no leaning on a prop that may be drawn away itself, 
and ruin you. 1 am not the right person to give you counsel either, 
Harry, for I ken little about the affairs of the world, bow they work, 
or what’s the wisest way — only ]’m an auld man, and have had my 
ain thoughts; be cannv, Harry, with the siller.” 

“ Yes, yes, no fear,” repeated Harry, a little impatiently; “ there 
is one thing I thought of speaking to you about, uncle. They tell 
me that it I took William Hunter’s farm into my own hands, and 
cultivated it in the scientific way— 1 could employ a man to manage 
that, you know — I might double its value. Now in the estate of Al- 
fenders, there’s this Mr. Hunter’s farm, which he pays two hun- 
dred pounds for, and a Mr. Sinclair has a much less one for a hun- 
dred and fifty, and there’s a house I’ll show you between this and 
Stirling, with twenty acres attached to it, that pays me fifty pounds 
—and the rest of the property is made of some houses in Stirling, 
and the half of the village down here. So you see there is part of 
my income dependent on the chance of these houses letting well. 
They are all right just now, but one can never depend on that, and 
Hr. Hunler’s lease is out. He does not wish to renew it himself, 
and though 1 have several offers tor the farm, 1 have a great mind 
to keep it in my own hands. I think such an occupation as that is 
the very thing for me; but then, I’ve no capital.” 

“ A.y, Harry, ay, Harry,” said bis uncle with eager interest, “ are 
you thinking already about occupation for the leisure that God has' 
given you? 1 like that— it gives me good heart; and, Harry, my 
man, just look at that grand country. 1 ken no pleasure greater 
than working on it, and bringing out the weallh that is home-born 
and in the soil; belter than your merchandizing, Harry,” and the 
old man heartily shook bis nephew’s hand. 

“ Yes. uncle; but the capital,” said Barry. 

“ 1 thought there was something to the fore— something in the 
bank to begin you with? ay, yes— I did not mind, you have spent 
that in the house; but, Harry, I have nothing myself but two hun- 
dred pounds, and 1 wanted, if it were God’s will, to leave some bit 
present to the bairns when 1 was gone; besides, two hundred pounds 
could do little for you, Harry.” 


HARRY MUIR. 


115 

“ Nothing at all,” said Harry, quickly; “ but 1 have a plan you 
might help me in. How much money will Miss Jean have, uncle?’ 1 

“Juan Calder? — na, na, Harry,” said the < Id man, shaking his 
head. “ 1 would not with my will, speak ill or judge unkindly ot' 
any mortal, but charity— L atn meaning the free heart and the kind 
thought — is not in her. Did you no hear the fight we had to get 
your papers from her? No, Harry; I’m sonv to damp you. She 
may have a thousand pounds, maybe. As much as that L warrant; 
but you’ll make nothing of Miss Jean.” 

“ A thousand pounds! My plan, uncle, is to offer her better in- 
terest than she could get elsewhere,” said Harry. “As for her 
kindness, 1 should never think of that; and 1 would not ask it be- 
cause 1 was her brother’s grandson, but because 1 could offer her 
so much per cent. ; that’s the way. Now a thousand pounds from 
Miss Jean would make these lands bear other crops than this— look, 
uncle.” 

They were standing at the corner of a field of thin and scanty 
corn. The long ears bent upon the breeze, like so many tall atten- 
uated striplings; and tlieir chill green contrasted unpleasantly with 
the rich brown tint wnicli began to ripen over a full, rustling, 
wholesome field on the other side of the way. 

“ It's a poor crop,” said Uucle Sandy, meditatingly ; “ it’s like 
the well doings of a cauld heart — it wants the good-will to grow. 
But Jeau Calder, Harry — Jean Calder help anv man! Well, Prov- 
idence may soften her heart; but it is not in her nature.” 

“ She will give the money for her own profit,” said Harry; “ no 
fear. I will consult Mr. Lindsay, and we can offer her good inter- 
est. Then you see, uncle, the advantage of it is, that we are her 
rightful heirs, and she is a very old woman now.” 

“ Whisht, Harry: let me never hear the like of this again,” said 
his uncle, gravely; “ you area young mau now, but God may keep 
you to be an old one Never you r< ckon on the ending of a . if e 
that it is in God’s hand to spare or take away, and never grudge 
the air of this living world — such as it is, we aye desire to breathe it 
lang ourselves— to one that He keeps in it day by day, nourishing 
the an Id worn-out heart with breath and motion, for good ends of 
His atn. And, Harry, this money is the woman’s life — I could not 
think of the chance of its perishing without pain and trouble, for it 
would be a dreadful loss to her — like the loss of a bairn.” 

“ Weil, well, uncle, no chance of its being lost,” said Harry, 
somewhat fretfully; “ but will you speak to tier when you go back 
to Ayr? will you undertake to negotiate this for me? 1 know she 
trusts you.” 

“ She trusts me just as other folk do, who have kent me tell few 
lies all my lifetime,” said Uncle Sandy, “ but as tor more than this, 
Harry, Jean Calder trusts no man. Well, I’ll tell her— J would not 
choose the office, but since you ask me. I’ll tell her, Harry, and put 
it before her in the best way 1 can. That you should have occupa- 
tion, is a good thought; and it's well too to increase your substance 
— well, my man, well; but you’ll need to be eident, and keep an 
eye yourself on everything— and even, Harry, you’ll need to learn.” 

“ Oh, yes, I’ll learn,” said Harry, “ but the money, uncle, is the 
important thing — there will be little difficulty with the rest.” 


116 


HARRY MUIR. 


The old man shook his head. 

“ Have more regard to the difficulties, Harry — if you do so, 
you’ll overcome them better; ior mind ye, siller is sometimes rnais 
ter, but lie’s easier to subdue and put your toot upon, than such 
things as heart and mind and conscience. Harry, be canny; God 
sometimes appoints us a hard school when we are slow of the up- 
take in an easy one. But you need not gloom— auld men get license 
of advising, and ye mind how the cottar ‘ mixes a’ with admoni- 
tion due.’ ” 

“ Yes,” said Harry, laughing, “ 1 am fated to have counselors — 
for yonder is our old Dragon who has no objection to give me the 
benefit of his experience too.” 

Alexander Muir slightly erected his white head with a single 
throb of injured feeling; for with ali his natural and gracious hu- 
mility, he did not choose to come down to the level of the poor old 
Dragon of Allenders; but when a considerable silence followed, 
and Harry walking by his side with a sullen gloom contracting the 
lines of his face, made violent dashes now and then at groups of 
frightened poppies, or at the lordly resistant thistle, the old man 
was the first to speak— for his anxious friends could not venture to 
offend this indulged and wayward Harry. 


“ The rough bur thistle spreading wide 
Amang the bearded bear—” 


Said the old man quietly; “ aye, Harry, my man, there were fine 
thoughts in that grand castaway; and a sore thing it is to see how 
little great gifts avail, and what shipwrecks folk may make with 
them — if this were anything but the avenue and porch of the great 
life-time, which we forget so easy! I’ve been of little use myself, 
Harry, in my daj 7 and generation — littfe use but to comfort the 
hearts of bairns, and gi?e them now ana then an hour’s sunshine 
and pleasance— but you’re better gifted both in mind and estate 
than I ever was. I make ye my depute, Harry, to do better service 
to God and man than me.” 

Oh, gentle, righteous heart! a sudden impulse of humility and 
tenderness came upon Harry Muir’s impressible spirit. Belter serv- 
ice! yet this old man seemed to ha7e lived for no other conscious 
end, than the service of God and man. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

You follow the young prince up and down like his evil angel. 

King Henry IV. 


“ Eh, Harry, here’s a gentleman coming,” said Violet, as she sat 
on the floor at the western window of the drawing-room with a book 
on her lap. Katie Calder kneeling beside her, w’as looking from 
the window, and making a superb cat’s cradle on her fingers. It 
was evening, and lessons and work alike concluded, the children 
chose each her own manner of amusement, until tea should be 
over, and leave them tree for their outdoor ramble. But it was 
Katie’s observation which discovered the gentleman, though Violet 


Hi 


HARRY MUIR. 


11-7 


was by no means incurious, when the discovery was communicated 
to her. 

“ Oh!” said Harry, turning from. the window with a slight flush 
on his face, ” it’s Gibbie Allenders — I might as well see him alone 
— but that would hurt his feelings, 
low.” 


Mind, he’s quite a foolish tel - 



This speech was addressed to no one in particular, but Hairy 
looked annoyed and restless, and they all perceived it. Gilbert 
Allenders, indeed was a kind of ghost to Harry; tor already an 
intimacy which disgusted his finer mind, but which he seemed to 
have no power to struggle against, had sprung up between (hem, 
and Gilbert never failed by jibe or malicious allusion, every time 
they met, to remind his new kinsman under what circumstances 
they first saw each other. Poor Harry! his earliest error here 
haunted him perpetually— he could not shake its consequences oft. 

“ Has he got his smoking-room fitted up yet, Mrs. Muir Allen- 
ders?” asked Gilbert, after the ceremonies of his introduction — 
though he had seen Agnes before — were over. “Has Harry not 
begun to retreat into a dtu of his otvn yet? Ah, you don’t know 
how we young fellows do in these respects— and really Allenders 
has shown so much good taste in the other parts of the house, that; 
1 am quite anxious to see the den— I’ve seen a collection of pipes 
in a German student’s room, that would astonish all Scotland to 
match— Bursch as they call themselves— horrid language that Ger- 
man— but I never could manage the coarse gutturals. ” 

” We have plenty in our own tongae,” said Uncle Sandy, quietly. 

” Ah, Scotch-gone out of date, sir, out of date— civilized peo- 
ple forget that there ever was such a jargon. 1 say, Harry, wasn’t 
that fine, that song Simson gave us the firsi night 1 saw you — mag- 
nificent — I didn’t know Allenders then, Miss Muir, quite a chance 
meeting, was it not extraordinary? and I think the first night he 
was in Stirling, too— wasn’t it, Harry?” 

Harry cast a guilty, angry look round the room; Martha started 
in her chair; Agnes glanced up uneasily; and Uncle Sandy invol- 
untarily shook iiis head; but Rose, happy Rose, heard nothing of it 
all, foi, with her eyelids drooping in a pleasant heaviness, she was 
dreaming out her dream— and though it was herself whom Gilbert 
addressed as Miss Muir, Rose remained peacefully ignorant of all 
he said, 

“ And there’s your friend, that lawyer fellow— your business 
man, I suppose, Allenders— he wasn’t with you; a couple of slow 
chaps, that advocate and him,” continued the sapient Mr. Gilbert. 
” 1 wouldn’t give twopence tor such society. If they’re not as fiat 
as the canal and as slow as a heavv boat, I’m no judge.” 

” It happens that we are all indebted to Mr. Charteris, and that 
he is a friend of ours,” said Martha, quickly. “ 1 believe Harry is 
proud to call him so.” 

” And I am sure 1 never met a pleasanler man,” stole in Agnes. 

And the eyes of Rose gleamed positive lightning upon the re- 
doubtable Gilbert. But Rose, though she ventured upon a little 
short prefatory cough, said nothing. 

‘‘ By the bye,” said Harry, hurriedly, ” you have not seen the 
grounds, Allenders; come and give me your opinion of them.” 


118 


HARRY MUIR. 


“ Delighted, it the ladies will accompany us,” said Mr. Gilbert? 
“ otherwise, Harry, 1 am much obliged, but can’t be detached from 
such fair company.” And Gilbert returned, with a glance of very 
unequivocal admiration, the indignant flash of Hose’s eye. 

A pause ot general disconcertment followed; irritated and de- 
fiant, Harry tossed about the books upon a little table near him, 
and moodily evaded the looks which sought his face. Mr. Gilbert 
Allenders, the only person present at ease, pulled up his high col- 
lar, and settled his long chin comfortably upon his stock, while 
Agnes, in a little flutter of anxious deprecation and peace making, 
began to move among her cups and saucers, and to prepare tea. 

"We have never had the pleasure of seeing you in Stirling yet. 
Miss Muir,” said Gilbert, turning his back upon Martha, and ad- 
dressing himself with great demonstration to Rose. " Haven’t you 
had. my sisters out, calling? 1 thought so. They’re nice girls 
enough, considering they’ve been always in the country. Ah, 
there’s nothing like a season or two in London for polishing up a 
man.” 

" Have you been in London, Mr. Allenders?” asked Agnes. 

" Yes, three or four years; but I’m not quite a good specimen,” 
said Mr. Gilbert, modestly, " for 1 was at work all the time, study- 
ing very hard— oh! very hard;” and the painful student laughed 
loudly at his own boast of industry. “ I say, Harry, Leith races 
come on next month— you’ll go with us, w'on’t you? There’s Sim 
son and Allan and me; L said vou would be sure to come.” 

" 1 don’t care a straw for Leith races,” said Harry, rudely; but 
notwithstanding he raised his head, and looked by no means so 
indifferent as he spoke. 

"Care! who said anybody cared?” answered Gilbert; “one 
must go ro lots of places one doesn’t care a straw tor— it becomes a 
duty to society. I’ll undertake to say you’ll come, Harry. We 
needn’t be mere than a couple ot days away, and the ladies won’t 
miss you. Permit me, Miss Muir.” 

And Gilbert, politely shutting out Martha and her uncle from 
sight of the tea-table with his long, loose person and his easy-chair, 
elaborately waited upon Rose, aud devoted himself to her in a la- 
borious attempt at conversation: but it is very hard to make a con- 
versation wtiere one of the interlocutors says only " Yes ” and 
" No,” and those with anything but good will; so Gilbert took in 
Agnes as a partaker of his attentions, and talked so fine, and inti- 
mated so manv lesiivities to come when the summer should be 
over, that the little wife grew interested in spite of herself, and 
wondered, (for Agnes had been very " strictly ” brought up) whether 
it would be proper and decorous for her, a matron and house- 
mother, twenty years old, to go to a ball. Martha, behind backs, 
sat quietly at her work, and said nothing; while Uncle Sandy 
looked on with a slight expression ot displeasure and offense. The 
old man had a sensitive perception of ill manners, and by no means 
liked them to be applied to himself. But Martha was not offended 
by the neglect of Gilbert Allenders. 

After tea, Harry— who had remained very moody and abstracted, 
except for a tew minutes when he, too, kindled at those descrip- 
tions of local party-giving —proposed a walk In tne grounds, where 


HARRY MUIR. 


119 


Agnes willingly, and Rose with great reluctance, were persuaded to 
accompany them. Rose was very innocent of flirtation— circum- 
stances had guarded her, and kept, from her both temptation and 
opportunity — so that, fully freighted with her present dreams, there 
could have Deen nothing less pleasant to Rose than to walk slowly 
along the mall, under the over- arching foliage, leaning upon the 
arm of Mr. Gilbert Allenders. And Mr. Gilbert Alienders was 
Durdened with no delicacy. He kept steadily behind Harry and 
Agnes, he lingered in quiet places, he spoke tender sentimentalities, 
lie quizzed the young ladies of Stirling, he insinuated his perfect 
conviction of the extreme superiority of Miss Rose Muir; but no 
amount ot proof could have persuaded Gilbert of a tenth part of 
the disgust and dislike with which Rose Muir listened. She was 
very near telling him so several times, an! begging rather to hear 
the rude jokes than the mawkish sentiment. But Rose was shy, and 
her safest refuge was in silence. 

“ What has Harry to do with such a man as that?’ 5 said Uncle 
Sandy. “ Martha, J doubt this fortune is to have its dangers, as 
great as the poverty?” 

‘‘Ay, uncle.” Martha had seen enough, after a week at Allen- 
ders, to convince her of that. 

‘‘And he’s taken with Rose,” said the old man “You were 
feared for Mr. Charteris, Martha; but there’s more reason here.” 

‘‘No reason, uncle, no reason,” was the quiet answer. ‘‘He 
may harm Harry, but Rose is very safe.” 

” So she is, it is true,” said the uncle. “ Ay, and the man that 
would do no harm to Harry might harm the free heart that clings 
by nature to things that are true and of good report. God preserve 
these bairns! If such a thing were happening as that Rose was to 
marry, 1 think, Martha, my woman, you should come cannily 
hame to me.” 

A long time after, when both of them had lapsed into thought- 
ful silence, Martha answered: 

” May be, uncle — it might be best; but many things must come 
and go between this time and that.” 

‘‘Harry has been speaking to me about a project he has,” said 
the old man, ‘‘about farming and borrowing siller. Has he told 
you, Martha?” 

“ Ay. uncle.” 

“ And you think well of it?” 

“ An occupation is always good.” said Martha. “ 1 am doubtful 
and anxious about his plans tor getting money, but the work should 
do him service; and Harry has begun on a great scale here, uncle. 
It is impossible he can go on so on his present income, and he will 
rather increase than diminish — he is always so confident. So I 
should be glad to think he had a chance ot improving the property. 
1 thought it a great fortune a month ago. It does not look so in- 
exhaustible now.” 

“ Well, as the money would come to you at any rate in the or- 
dinary course ol natuie,” said the old man, hesitating; ‘‘and as 
there is aye the land to fall back upon, no to speak of my two hun- 
dred pounds, 1 think 1 may venture to speak to Miss Jean whenever 
1 get back to Ayr. ” 




120 HARRY MUIR. 

“Miss Jean! Does Harry mean to ask her for the money?” 
asked Martha. 

“ TV bat think ye of it? She is far from a likely person, but he 
means to offer her higher interest, he says, than anybody else. What 
think ye of it, Martha? for I am only doubtful myself,” said the 
old man, anxiously. 

But Martha only shoojc her head. “Do it, if Harry asks you, 
uncle — do it. ] have given up advising now. He must he lert alone.” 

And Harry, to his great wonder, and with a strange mixture of 
irritation and pleasure, found liimseli left alone — suffered, without 
remonstrance or check, to lollow* entirely the counsel of his own 
will. Good little Agnes had great trust in what Hairy said about 
economy and prudence, and triumphantly pointed out to Martha 
f those resolutions of sublime virtue with wiiich every piece of prac- 

tical extravagance was prefaced; and Martha listened with a grave 
smile, and never suggested doubt to the simple heart, which, for 
itself, saw the most inexhaustible fortune in those much spoken-of 
“ rents,” and never dreaded now the old familiar evils of povertv. 

Martha descended from her mother’s place among them. She 
stood aside, as she felt was meet, and suffered the young husband 
and the young wife to take their lawful place, free of all interfer- 
ence of hers. She herself now was only guardian of Rose and Vio- 
let, domestic helper of Mrs. Agnes — Harrj r Muir’s quiet elder sis- 
ter, living in his house, a member of his familv; and Martha’s natu- 
ral pride took a secret unconscious delight in bowdng itself to this 
voluntary humility. She soon began to be neglected too, for the 
strangers who visited the young household did not feel that the eld- 
est and least attractive member of it had any such claim on their 
attention as the pretty, girlish wife, or the graceful sister Rose. So 
Martha dwelt more anil more in her own room, always working 
and watching the shadows on Demeyet for her Hourly relaxation. 

\ These shadows going and coming, and the soft wind rustling in 

the leaves, and the water continually passing by, and gleaming out 
and in among the shadowing foliage, were delights to her in her 
solitude. So were the children, when they drew her out to walk 
between them by the water-side, or when they sat at her feet, and 
retailed to her the stories of Dragon; and so were Hairy’s good 
spirits, his constant occupation, his very infrequent lapses, and the 
sunny tone and atmosphere, with which the hopeful house was 
filled. Yet Martha was anxious for Rose, whose dreams — sweet 
golden mists— were the first and only thoughts which her young 
sister had never ventured to whisper in her ear; for the graver 
woman knew by true instinct, though they had never visited her 
ow T n experience, what these youthful dreamings were, and always 
gave tenderly and quietly the sympathy which the young moved 
heart came to seek of her, when Rose leaned upon her shoulder in 
the summer nights, and looked at the stars twinkling about Deme- 
yet, and sighed. With her arm round the girl’s waist, and both 
their faces veiled in the gloom, Martha would sigh, too, and tell 
stories of the old time that was past— gentle remembrances of the 
father and mother, tnles of Uncle Sandy, and of many a familiar 
name in Aj T r. And Rose smiled, and shed gentle tears, and asked 
questions about those old humble romances, those dead soirows, 


HARRY MUIR. 


1.21 






those softened and tianquil histories of common life, till the dreams 
in her heart no longer oppressed her with their shadowy enchant- 
ment, but fijated away, leaving her only with a deeper apprehen- 
sion and sympathy; ani themselves came back, when it was their 
time, freshened as with the evening dews. Sometimes, while they 
were thus seated by the open window, Martha leaning on it, and 
Rose on her, with sweet sounds ascending — rustling of trees and 
water, far-off child voices of Violet and Katie, Martha would feel 
for a moment — and as she felt it, her steady hand shook a little, 
and her voice trembled— that this ready memory of hers, and the 
unconscious link which drew one story after another into her re- 
membrance, aud from her lips, was a mark of the age which began 
gradually to draw near. Age! the time of repose, of quietness, of 
peace; in the day-time, when such a thought struck her, the fiery 
heart within her chafed ana rebelled; but at night she only felt her 
eyelids moisten, and her heart swell. Martha was wrong— age was 
not near; but in spite of forebodings and anxiety, this was a time 
of peace— a reposing time wherein strength for the great conflict 
was to be gathered. 




CHAPTER XXVII. 

Three thousand ducats for three months, and 
Antonio bound. 

Merchant of Venice. 


“The land is aye guid security,” said Alexander Muir doubt- 
fully to himself, as be slowly brushed bis Sabbath-day's hat, and 
glanced from the window to where one or two of his younger 
visitors, carrying their work idly in their hands, strayed wdth 
wistful looks past his strawberry beds. ‘‘There are hungry e’en 
among these bairns, and what can we expect, poor things? 1 must 
promise them a lawful feast in the afternoon, if they’ll no pick any 
berries the lime l’in away; and then there’s my two hundred 
pounds if it should come to the worst— but two hundred’s a far 
v ay off a thousand; and the house anil the garden are worth but 
little siller, and to sell them would break my heart. Well, I can 
ave see what Miss Jean says; and if all belonging to ye have done 
hard things for ye, in their day, Harry, my man, this is no the 
least ” 

“ Bairns,” continued the old man from the window; ‘‘do ye see 
yon strawberries yonder among the leaves? I’ll be out an hour — j r ou 
might have time to make an end of them if ye liked— but 1 ken 
tliere is far mair honor among ye than the like of: that. Maggie, my 
dear, never you mind the rasps— they can stand steady of them- 
sels, and need no prop. Beatie, come away from the stiawberries 
like a good bairn.” 

“ It’s just a branch that’s lying ower the border— somebody’s 
sure to tramp on't,” explained Beatie. 

“ Never you mind, my woman, so it’s no you that does it,” an- 
swered the old man. “ Enter not into temptation— turn your backs 
upon them like good bairns; and if 1 see there’s good work done 
when I come back, ye shall have a table spread out, and I’ll tell 


122 HARRY MUIR. 

Mrs. Tamson to send in some cream, and ye shall gather the berries 
for yoursels. ” 

One oi two smiling faces looked up and nodded thanks, and there 
was a very general quickening of needles; but Mary Burness, who 
had “cast out” with her “ lad ” the night before, drooped her 
head pathetically and sighed. Poor Mary, in her melancholy, had a 
soui above strawberries! 

Having delivered this his last message, and given to Jessie, his 
little handmaiden, special directions to prepare for this simple en- 
tertainment, Alexander Muir took his staff in his hand, and set out 
solemnly to call upon Miss Jean. 

He had left Allendeis only the previous day, and had left it in 
good spirits, giviDg Harry particular charge about the “school- 
ing ” of Violet and Katie, which the old man perceived ran some 
risk of being neglected, at least by the heads of the house. But 
Uncle Sandy had great hopes of Harry, and was much interested 
about the occupation which Harry desired for his leisure. Never- 
theless, the old man walked slowly toward the dwelling-place of 
Jean Oalder. He needed to De a brave man who should venture to 
ask money from her. 

“ Ou, ay, she’s aye steering,” said, discontentedly, the woman 
who occupied the lower story of Miss Jean’s house, “ waery tak 
her: 1 h ive h id nae peace o' my life since ye took that little brat 
Katie away. She fees my wee lassie wi’ ten shillings in the year to 
kindle her fire, and do a’ her needs, and expects me forbye to wash 
her nlaes into the bargain, as if 1 hadua p'enty to do wi’ a man, 
and a niuckle laddies, and a’ tnae weans! 1 wadna have let Aggie 
gang, but just 1 thought five shillings— though it didna come till 
the end o’* the half year — couldna weel come amiss where there’s 
aye sae muckle to do wi’t, and Aggie was just to gang up in the 
morning. Instead of that it’s Aggie here, Aggie there, the liaill day 
through; and she never as muckle as says, have ye a mouth — ex- 
cept tor that drap parritch in the morning, and sour milk.” 

“ Poor woman! she gets more ill than you,” said the old man, 
compassionately; “ but Aggie has mother and father to look after 
her, and see she’s no ill used; whereas little Katie had but a widow 
woman to look to, who couldna have another mouth brought hame 
to Per; and that makes a great difference; so now I’ll go up the 
stair and see Miss Jean.” 

But the old man’s heart almost failed him, as he paused at the 
halt-opened door. He had no opportunity of escape, however, for 
the sharp, anxious, miser-ear had beard the approaching footstep; 
and the shrill, quivering voice of Miss Jean Calder demanded im- 
patiently, “ Wha’s there?” 

‘It’s me,” said Alexander Muir, meekly. “If ye’re well 
enough, and your iane, I’ll come in. Miss Jean.” 

“Ay, come in, ant gie us the news,” answered Miss Jean, ap- 
pearing at the kitchen door in a thick muslin cap, with great flaunt- 
ing borders, borrowed from Aggie’s indignant mother. The poor 
lean cheeks looked thinner and more gaunt than usual within the 
wide full muslin wiugs which flaunted out from them on either 
side; and hot as this July day was, Miss Jean had been sitting, 
with an old faded woolen shawl over her shoulders, close by the 




HA11RY MUIR. 


123 


I 


■fire. “Ye may come in, Sandy, since it’s you, and gie us thenews 
—-just inbye here. It’s nae guid standing on ceremony wi auld 
friends like you. Come inbye to the fire, Sandy Muir,’ said Miss 

Jean, graciously. , . 

The old man entered the little kitchen with some trepidation, 
though he hailed this singular courtesy as a good omen, and was 
emboldened for his difficult errand. 

The kitchen was small and hot, and stifling, for the July sun, 
very imperfectly kept out by a torn curtain of checked linen and a 
broken shutter, accomplished what Miss Jean’s penurious handful 
of fire scarcely could have done. A small round deal table stood 
before the fire-place; opposite to it was the door of Miss Jean s 
“ concealed bed,’’ which she closed in passing; while between the 
fire-place and the window a wooden “ bunker,’ dirty aud 
wouuded, filled up all the wall. Miss Jeau herself sat by the fue- 
side in a high wooden elbow chair, furnished with one or two loose 
thin cushions, which scarcely interposed the least degree of softness 
between the sharp corners of the chair, aud the sharper corners of 
her poor worn angular frame. A little black tea-pot stood by the 
fire— tor thritt Miss Jean never emptied this tea-pot ; it always siood 
baking there, and always had its scanty spoonful of new tea added 
to the accumulation of half boiled leaves, till it would bear no fur- 
ther addition, and compelled a reluctant cleaning out. 

Hut on the top of Miss Jean’s bunker, a stiauge contrast to the 
penurious meanness of all her other arrangements, lay a great ham 
enveloped in greasy paper, and roasting slowly in an atmosphere to 
which U was veiy little accustomed. A certain look of recognition 
given by Uncle Sandy to this very respectable edible, and an evi- 
dent importance with which he stood endowed in the eyes of Miss 
jean, explained how it came here— a peace-offering from Allendeis 

10 ‘^It was'weeHiune of ye, Sandy, to gar them mind the auld wife 
— verv weel dune; and aue canna say what may comet) t. 1 m no 
meanTng m siller ” added Miss Jean, hurriedly. 1 wadna en 
couragea* mercen ar y spirit-ye ken that-but in guid will, Sandy 
-gutd will; and guid will's a grand thing amang relations; and 
the ham’s do ill eating. They would get U cheap yonder away noo 
cheaper than the like of you or me? 

■ You see ” said Uncle Sandy— with elaborate skill, as he 
thought stood simple heart. “ they would have nane but the very 
finest it being tor you, Miss Jean, and so 1 can not undertake to 
r ay it was Cheap-when ye get the best ot anything, it's seldom to 

Ca H Ye’re a’ grand man to learn me. Sandy Muir,” said Miss Jean 
with a laugh Ot derision. “ Me. thal have been a careful woman a 
mv davs never gieing a penny mair for onv thing than what it was 
worlh tome rfe heard the like of you, that pretend to be philoso- 
phers arguing against ane, when ane wanted to png do\\ n a thing 
pners, arguiug 5 mna noo Miinp mail* than the thing s 



you ^1 hat everybody kens has just had as little discernment as a 
bairn, \nd bein imposed on by the haill town, telling me what 


HARRY MUIR. 


124 

cheap and what’s dear! I reckon it Solomon had been here, he 
m ouid have iound out at last the new thing that he took sic bother 
about, honest man.” 

“ Wee!, Miss Jean, I may have been imposed on— I’ll no say,” 
said the old man, looking slightly displeased ” Most folk have, 
one time or another; but you're no asking what kind oi a place 
they’ve gotton, nor about the bairns themsel’s.” 

“ Ye’ll think yoursel’ up Ihe brae, Sandy,” said Miss Jean, 
“ uncle, nae less, to a laird; but I’m less heeding, I’m thankful, of 
the vanities of this warld. Is’t a guid brown earth the lad’s siller 
comes from, or is’t siller in the bank, or what is it? But you needna 
tell me about their grand claes and their braw house, for my mind’s 
a different kind of. mind from that.” 

‘‘It’s a’ guid brown earth, as you say. Miss Jean,” said the old 
man, eagerly seizing this opening to begin his attack; ‘‘that is, a’ 
but some houses; and Harry like a thrifty man. is giving his atten- 
tion to the land, and says, with good work, it could be made twice 
as profitable. You will be glad to hear of that, Miss Jean.” 

“ 1 would be glad to hear it, if 1 didna ken that nae profit in this 
world would ever make yon wasteful callant thrifty,'’ said the old 
woman, leaning back in her chair, and pressing the great borders 
of her cap close to her face with two dingy, shriveled hands. ” Do 
ye think 1 dinna ken as weel as you that lie’s gaen and gotten a 
grand house, and deckit out yon bit doll o’ bis as fine in ribbons 
and satins, as if she were a countess? Na, Zanily, I’ll no gie up 
my discrimination. Harry Muir will come to want yet, or you ir.ay 
ca’ me a lee.” 

‘‘No fears of Harry Muir,” said the old man warmly. “ I have 
myself, as 1 was just telling him, two hundred pounds of my ain, 
besides the garden and the bouse, and I’ll come to want mysel’. I 
am well assured of that, before want touches Iiairy Muir — but 
that’s no the question; you see he could double his incoming siller 
in the year, if lie could do justice to this farm; and theauld farm- 
er, a Mr. Hunter, a very decent sponsible man, acknowledged the 
same thing to me, but said he was too old to learn hiaisel’.” 

” Twa hundred pounds! do you mean to say that you're twa 
hundred pounds afore the world, Sandy?” said Miss Jean. “ Man, 
I didna think you had sae muckle in ye! but take you care, Sandy 
Muir, my man— take you care of the mammon of unrighteousness 
• — it’s a fickle thing to baud it sicker enough, and no tohaud itower 
fast.” 

And as she spoke, a slight twitch passed over the hard muscles 
of her face; yet she spoke unconsciously, and had not the remotest 
idea that she condemned herself. 

‘‘And what would be your counsel, Miss Jean?” said Uncle 
Sandy, not without a little tremor. ‘‘It would cost siller at first, 
you see, to work upon this farm; but no doubt it’s sure to answer, 
being just like sowing seed, which is lost tor a time, but in spring 
is found again in the green ear and blade. The lad is anxious to 
he well advised, and no begin without good consideration ; so what 
would you say?” 

*‘ I’ll tell ye what I would say, Sandy Muir,” said the miser, 
spreading back her muslin wings, .and leaning forward to him, with 


■■■I 


HARRY MUIR. 



HARRY MUIR. 125 

them projecting from her face on either side, and her dingy hands 
supporting her sharp chin ; “1 would say that a penny saved was 
as guid as tippence made; and that he should begin now, at tlie 
beginning of his time, and lay by and spare, and when he’s an auld 
man like you, he’ll hae a better fortin than he’ll ever get out ot the 
land. That’s my counsel, and that’s the way I’vedone mysel’; and 
if he makes as gude an end o’ his life as I’ve done o’ mine, L’ll let 
you ca’ him a thrifty man.” 

“ We’ll nane of us be here to call him so,” said Uncle Sandy, 

we’ll baith be in a place where gathered siller is an unthrifty pro- 
vision. Whiles I think upon that, Miss Jean,” 

“ Ou, ay, the like of you are aye thinking upon that,” said the 
old woman with fiery eyes; “ but I fell ye I’m nane so sure ot what 
may come to pass; for I’ve seen mony a hopefuller lad than Harry 
Muir— mony a ane that thought in their ain mind they would read 
the name on my grave-head twenty years after it was printed there, 
and I’ve pitten my fit upon their turf for a’ that. I’m no wishing 
the lad ill, I’m wishing naebody ill that doesna meddle wi’ me; but 
I’ve seen as unlikely things— and you’ll see whether I’m no a sooth 
prophet, Sandy Muir.” 

And suddenly withdrawing her hands, and nodding her feeble 
head in ghastly complacency, the old weird woman leaned back 
again in her chair. 

“ God tosbid ye should! God forbid it!— and spare, and bless, 
and multiply the lad, and make him an honor and a strength in the 
land, long after the moss is on my liead-stane,” said Alexander 
Muir, with solemn earnestness. ” And God bless the young bairns 
and the hopeful,” added the old man, eagerly, after a pause, “ and 
deliver them from evil eye that grudges at their pleasance, or evil 
foot of triumph on their innocent graves! And God forgive them 
that have ill thoughts ot the sons of youth that are His heritage- 
blessings on their bright heads, ane and a’?” 

And when he paused, trembling with earnest, indignant fervor, 
the old man’s eye fell upon Miss Jean. She had risen to take down 
from the high, dusty mantel-piece a coarse blue woolen stocking 
which she had been knitting. Now she resumed her seat, and began 
with perfect composure to take up some loops which her unsteady 
fingers had drawn out as she took down tlie stocking. Either she 
had not listened to Uncle Sandy’s fervent blessing, or was not dis- 
posed to except at it — certainly she settled down in her chair with 
feeble deliberation, pulling about her thin cushions peevishly, and 
with no sign or token about her of emotion of any kind. Her very 
eye had dulled and lost its fire, and you saw only a very old, mis- 
erable, solitary woman, and not an evil spirit incarnate of covetous- 
ness and malice, as she had looked a few minutes before. 

There was a considerable pause, tor the old man did not find it 
so easy to overcome the tremor of indignation and horror into which 
her words had thrown him, and he now had almost resolved — but 
tor a lingering unwillingness to disappoint Hairy —to* say nothing 
of his special'mission. At last the silence was broken by Miss Jean 
herself. 

“ 111 times, sandy Muir, awfu’ ill times; for auld folk, such like 
as me, that have just their pickle siller and uaething mair, nae land 


126 HARRY MUIR. 

to bear fruit nor strong ann to work for them, Sandy; the like of 
such tim«s as this, are as bad as the dear years.” 

Poor, forlorn, worn-out life! unconsciously to herself, the old 
man’s blessing on the young, tvhose strength she grudged and en- 
vied, had touched agenile chord in her withered heart. Nothing 
knew she of what softened her, but tor the moment she was soft- 
ened. 

“ Are ye getting little interest for your siller, Miss Jean?” said 
Uncle Sandy, immediately roused. 

“ Ldtle! ye might say naething ava, and no be far wrang,” an- 
swered Miss Jean, briskly. “ A ptiir dirty three pund, or twa- 
pund-ten, for a guid bunder. Ye’ 1 be getting mair for your twa, 
JS.indy Muir, or ye wadna look eae innocent! Where is’t, man? and 
ye’re an auld sleekit sneckdrawer, after a’, and ken how to tak care 
o’ yoursel’.” 

“ 1 ken ane, Miss Jean, would give ye five pounds for every hun- 
dred, and mony thanks into the bargain,” said the old man, his 
breath coming short and his face flushing all over wiili anxious 
haste; “ and a decent lad and landed security. 1 might have told 
you sooner, if 1 had kent; but, you see, 1 never thought it would 
answer you.” 

“Answer me! I find guid siller answer me better than maist 
things that folk put their trust in.” said Miss Jean, laying down her 
stocking, and lifting up the frosty cold blue eyes, ^hicli again 
twinkled and glimmered with eagerness, to the old man’s face. 
“Ye ken ane; and does he gie you this muckle lor your twa hunder 
pounds?” 

“ Na, my twa hundred is out of my ain power, in the Ayr hank, 
besides, its mair siller this lad wants — mine would do him nue serv- 
ice. ’ ’ 

“ This lad! wha does the auld tricky body mean?” said Miss 
Jean, fixing her sharp eyes curiously on Uncle Sandy ; “ five pounds 
in the hunder— ve’re meaning he’ll gie me that by the year, and 
keep a’ my siller where 1 never can lay hand on’t again, Sandy 
Muir?” 

“ At no hand,” said the old man, with dignity, “ the best of 
landed security, and the siller aye at your call, and the interest 
punctual to a day.” 

Miss Jean’s mouth watered and her fingers itched; it was impos- 
sib.e to think oi this treasure without yearning to clutch it. “ Ane 
might put by thretty pounds in the year,” she said, musingly. 
“ And how do you ca’ this lad when ye name him, Sandj r Muir?” 

“ I’ve seen his name in the papers,” said the old man, with min- 
gled exultation and anxiety, “ and there it stands, ‘ Harry Muir 
Allenders, Esq., ot Allenders,’ but at hame here we call him your 
nephew and mine, Harry Muir.” 

Miss Jean uttered a passionate cry, rose from her seat, and flung 
the stocking with all her feeble might in the face ot her visitor. 
“Eh, Sandy- Muir, ye auld, leein, artful, designing villain! was’t 
no enough that ye came ance already wi’ you lang-tongued writer 
and reived my house of guid papers that were worth sTller, but ye 
would come again, ye smooth-spoken, white-headed hypocrite, to 
seize my very substance away from me, and take bread out ot a 


HARRY MUfR. 


127 


lone woman’s mouth to make a great man of a graceless prodigal. 
Ye auld sinner! ye hard-hearted thieving spoiler, that 1 should say 
so! how dare ye come to break a puir auld woman’s heart, and 
tantalize the frail life out of me, wi’ your lees and deceits about 
siller? Oh, Sandy Muir!” 

And Miss Jean threw herself down once more in her hard chair, 
and began to wipe the corners of her eyes; for the disappointment 
of her ruined expectations was really as hard upon her miserable 
soul as the tailing of fortune or fame is at any time to its eager pur- 
suer, who has lifted his hand to grasp what Fate remorselessly 
snatches' away. 

“ Ye’ll come to yoursel’. Miss Jean— ye’ll come to yoursel’,” said 
Uncle Sandy quietly, as he laid the stocking on the table. 

And alter another burst of fierce invective, Miss Jean did come 


to herself. 

“ And he had to send you — he couldna get a decent writer to take 
up such an errand for him! but I’ll see him come to want, as a 
waster should, and he need ask nae charity from me!” 

“ Nor never will,” said the much-enduring Uncle Sandy; ” and 
Mr. Macer, whom ye ken weel, Miss Jean, for the first writer in 
this haill town, is instructed on the subject. May be, that may sat- 
isfy ye, if ye dinna believe me: but it might be best when he comes 
to see ye, no to throw your wires at to.” 

“ VVeel, Standy Muir, ye’re no such ah ill body after a’,” said 
Miss Ji an, with a shrill laugh; “ and what better did ye deserve, ye 
auld sinner, after pitting me in such grand hopes? But it there’s 
land to trust to, past yon prodigal himsel’ — and 1 wouldia gie a 
strae in the fire lor his bond — and your aia undertaking, ami your 
twa hundred pounds, Sandy Muir; for ane could aye easy take the 
law of you, being close at hand, and neighbor like — I’ll no say out 
1 might hearken, it 1 was secure of my siller.” 

And with this gracious deliverance, to himself quite unexpected, 
Alexander Muir gladly left Miss Jean to order the cream for his 
straw bet ries, and to write a note to Harry. The old man drew a 
long breath, and wiped his brow with the most grateful sense of re- 
lief when he once more stood at the door of his own garden, and 
saw the table spread upon the green, and the expectant girls only 
waiting the permission ot his presence to plunge down amonir the 
green cool strawberry leaves, and bring foith the fragrant fruit. 
Good Uncle Sandy looked round upon the youmr bright heads with 
a swelling heart, and said “ blessings on them!” once more, the 
evil ‘houghts ot Miss Jean’s envious and unlovely age struck the 
old man as if with a vague presentiment of danger. His heart 
stretched out strong, protecting arms around them. ‘ lea, chil- 
dren are God’s heritage,” he said to himself in encouragement and 
hope; and Maggie, and Beenie, and Beatie and Mary, all felt a 
nr' re delicate tenderness than usual, in the smiles and kind words 
of their entertainer. 




128 


HARRY MUIR. 


CHAPTER XXV111. 

I’ve seen the morning, with gold the hills adorning, 

And loud tempests roaring before parting day. 

Song. 

“ Success to Uncle Sandy — he has done it!” cried Harry, with 
exultation, as he threw Uncle Sandy’s note, which he himself had 
just glanced at, across the table to Rose. ‘‘ Read it aloud for the 
general edification, Rosie. My uncle has always some good coun 
sel for us.” 

And Rose, upon w T hom this duty generally devolved, put little 
Harry into Martha’s lap, and read the letter: 

“ My bear Harry,— I have just come home from seeing Miss 
Jean; and to put you out of pain, 1 may as well say at once that, 
to my great astonishment, she has consented like a lamb; so tliat I 
called on Mr. Macer, on my road home, and told him he might go 
the very same afternoon and conclude the matter; and I suppose 
3 r ou will get the siller very soon. But Harry, my man, mind what 
I said to you, and take good thought and competent counsel before 
you begin to lay it out, for I have heard folk say that ye may sow 
siller broadcast on land, and it it’s no wisel} T done, you may be left 
ne’er a hair the better after all. 1 do not pretend to be learned about 
farming; but mind, Harry, and take good advice before you begin 
to spend this siller. 

“ Your propine of the ham was very well taken, and did me good 
in my errand; but X will never wish you an errand like it, Harry. 
Poor old desolate woman, it makes my heart sore to see her strong 
grip of the world, and worse than that, her grudge at you and the 
like of you, for the strength and youth which Jean Calder had in 
her day, but could not hoard like siller. 1 can not get this out of 
my head, for it aye rejoices me myself to see the new life springing, 
and my heart blesses it; and Jean Calder, if years are anything, 
should be nearer the end than me. 

‘‘ Ye may tell Violet and Katie that the bairns here are just lay- 
ing the table in the garden, and that we are all to get our four hours’ 
of strawberries and cream. So being a little wearied after my battle 
with Miss Jean, and the bairns being clamorous for me outbye, and 
besides the first part of this letter being what will most content yon , 
Harry, the rest of tlie bairns will make allowance for me if 1 say no 
more at the present writing. 

“ Alexander Muir.” 

* * * * * * * 

‘‘Well done, Uncle Sandy! He is the prince of pleniporentia 
lies!” said the triumphant Harry, who, in the meantime, had 
opened another letter. “And here’s a note from Charteris. He’s 
coming to-day to pay us a visit, Agues. You must give him the 
best room, and do him all honor— but for him, we migtit never 


HARRY MUIR. 


129 




V 


have seen Alleuders. Does anybody know, bv the bye, what first 
set Charteris to search for the heir? Do you, Rosie?” 

“ Marry, me!” 

Rose hastily drew little Harry upon her lap again, and looked 
■very much amazed and innocent; but the color rose over her lace, 
and the small heir of Allenders felt her brow burn as he pulled her 
hair. His father laughed, and pulled Rose’s dark love-locks too. 

“ Nevei mind, then, we can ask himself; but Rose, we must take 
care that no hostile encounter takes place between Charteris and 
Gibbie Allenders — that would not do, you know.” 

A sudden frown contracted the forehead on which little Harry’s 
hand grew hotter and hotter. The very name ot. Gilbert Allenders 
had grown a bugbear to Rose, for he bad already paid them repeated 
visits, and was every time more and more demoustiative ui bis de- 
votion to herself. 

“Now, little ones, are you ready?” said Hariy. “Come, we 
shall drive you in to school to day; and who else will go with me? 
you, Agnes, or Rose? We will stay in Stirling till Charteris comes, 
and bring him home.” 

“ Not me,” said Rose, under her breath, “not me.” She said 
it as if she was resisting some urgent solicitations, and very resolute 
was the heroic Rose, who in ordinary circumstauces thought a drive 
to Stirling a very pleasant thing. 

“ Nor me either, Harry, for 1 have something to do,” sgud 
Agnes; “ and besides, 1 don’t want to be an hour or two in Stirling. 
Go yourself, and take the children; and Dragon thinks, Harry, 
that Violet’s pony should be put to the little old gig to take them 
to school, for they can not walk always, Dragon says; and it won’t 
do to have a pillion, as Lettie proposed.” 

“ But, Harry, 1 think it would, and Katie thinks it would,” said 
Violet, eagerly; “ and I would ride behind tire cue day, and Katie 
the other And what way could we no do as well as the lady in 
young Loch invar?” 

“The lady in young Loch invar did not run away every day, or I 
date say even she might have preferred a gig,” said Harry. “ And 
besides^ she had no pillion 1 think we must have another pony for 
Katie — that will be the best plan.” 

“ Eli. Violet!” Little Katie Calder looked down at her printed 
chintz frock, and struggled to restrain the laugh of delight which 
was quite irrestrainable; for Katie had other frocks now much 
grander than the chintz one, and the little handmaiden ot Miss Jean 
believed devoutly that she had come to live in fairy land. 

Their school was about two miles off, on the Stirling road — a 
famous genteel school tor young lady boarders, where only these two 
little stiangers were admkted as day scholars, because “ Allenders ” 
was landlord of the house. Violet and Katie dined with the young 
ladies at Blaelodge, besides having lessons with them; and they 
were being practically trained into the “ manners ” tor which good, 
stiff, kindly Miss Jnglis was renowned. On this particular morning 
the children Tan to their room for their bonnets, and collected their 
hordes from the sunny window in the hall, just beside the door, 
which iliey had chosen for their study, with a considerable flutter 
of escitemeni; for to have “ the carriage ” stop at Blaelodge, and 
5 


130 


HARRY MUIR. 


Harry himself, the most dignified of mortal men in the eyes of both,, 
seen by all the young ladies at all the windows taking care of them, 
was quite an overwhelming piece of grandeur. 

“ lie’ll take off his hat to Miss lnglis,” said Katie, reverentially. 
“ 1 saw him do that once, Violet, to the minister’s wife.” 

“Eh, I’ve lost my grammar,” said Violet in dismay. “Katie, 
do you mind where we had it last? And there’s Harry ready at the. 
door. ’ ’ 

“ When we were sitting on the steps at Dragon’s room last night,” 
said the accurate Katie, “ yes, 1 ken; and I’ll run, Lettie. ” 

“ I’ll run myself,” said Violet stoutly; and there immediately fol- 
lowed a race across the lawn, which Lettie being most impetuous, 
thieafened at first to win, but which was eventually carried by the 
steadier speed of Katie Calder. 

The Dragon himself, taking long, feeble, tremulous strides over 
the dewy turf, met them half-way, carrying the lost grammar. 

“Ay, I kent it was near school time,” said old Adam; “and 
what should I pit my fit on, the first thing this morning when 1 
steppit out o’ my ain door, but this braw new book? What g**rs 
ye be such careless monkeys? And it might just as easy have tum- 
bled down ofl the step to the byre dour, and had the brown cow 
Mai lie, tramp on’t instead o’ me -and then ye never could have* 
looked ;it it again, bairns. L wish you would just mind that a’ thing 
costs siller.” 

Eh, Dragon, Harry is to take us to Blaeh dge in the carriage,” 
said Violet; “for Harry is going lo Stirling to bring home Mr. 
Charteris to stay a whole week; and you "mind Mr. Charteris, 
Dragon?” 

“ That’s yon birkie,” said the old man. “ Is he coming to be 
mariied upon Miss Rose?” 

“ As it Rose would marry anybody!” said Violet, with disdain:, 
“ but, eh, Katie! 1 dinna mind my grammar.” 

“ Because you made him tell us fairy tales last night,” said the 
sensible Katie; “ but I had my grammar learned first. Come away, 
Lettie, and h am it on the road.” 

“ And I’ll maybe dauner as far as Maidlin Cross and meet ye„ 
bairns, when ye’re coming hame,” said Dragon. “ And I waeina 
care, it Mr. Hairy gave ye theauld gig, lo drive ye ower every morn- 
ing mysel’, and sae ye may tell him.” 

But Harry, just then, had discovered, by a second glance at Cutli- 
belt’s note, that he did not expect to arrive in Stirling till four or 
five o’clock “ It does not matter, however,” said Harry, “ 1 have 
something to do in Stirling, and an hour or two is not of much im- 
portance. Have a good dinner tor us, Agnes — perhaps I may bring 
out somebody else with me. Now, little ones, jump in— and you 
ueed not expect us till five.” 

Agnes stood on the steps, very gay and blooming, in a morning 
dress which she would have thought magnificent Sabbat h-day’s ap- 
parel six months ago; while Rose, behind her, held up little Harry 
to kiss his hand to his young father. The window of the dining- 
room, where they had breakfasted, was open, and Martha stood be- 
side it looking out. She was chiding herself, as she found that all 
those peaceful days had not yet quite obliterated the old suspicious 




HARRY MUIR. 




131 

anxiety which trembled to see Harry depart anywhere alone; and 
unconsciously she pulled the white jasmine flowers which clustered 
about the window, and telt. their fragrance sicken her, and threw 
them to the ground. Many a time after, there returned to Martha’s 
heart the odor of those jasmine flowers. 

The high trees gleaming in the golden sunshine, the dewy bits of 
shade, and then the broad flush of tangible light into which their 
horse dashed at such an exhilarating pace, made the heart of Harry 
bound as lightly as did those ol the children by his side. In his 
•warm and kindly good-humor Harry even hesitated to set them 
down at the very shady gale at Blaelodge, which the sunshiue never 
reached even in midsummer, till its latest hour, and gave five min- 
utes to consider the practicability of carrying them with hi n to 
Stirling; but it was not practicable— and Many only paused to lift 
them out, and bid them huiry home at night to see the strangers, 
before proceeding himself on his further way. ' The intiueuceof the 
bright summer day entered into his very heart; he looked to his 
light hand, were lay the silver coils of the Forth, gleaming over 
fertile fields and through rich foliage; he looked before him, where 
his young groom steadily driving on, cut in two the far-off mass of 
Benledi, and lifted his towering head over the mountain — arr un- 
conscious innocent Titan— and Harry’s heart ran over like a child’s, 
and he scarcely could keep himself still for a second, but whistled 
and sung, and talked to John, till John thought Allenders the mer' 
riest and wittiest gentleman in the country side; and John was no 1 * 
much mistaken. 

The day passed with the children, as days at school always pass. 
Violet very quick and very ambitious, Tesolute noi to lose the silver 
medal inscribed with its glorious “ Dux,” which she had worn for 
a whole week, managed to learn her grammar in some mysterious 
magical way which the steady Katie Calder could not comprehend; 
and at last, iust a9 Martha at home began to superintend the toilet 
which Rose anxiously desired to have plainer than usual to day, al- 
though in spite of her, herself took involuntarily pains with it, 
Katie and Violet gathered up their books, and left Blaelodge. Their 
•road was the highway— a fine one, though not so delightful to Lettie 
as the narrower by-lanes about Allenders — but the sun was suffi- 
ciently low to leave one side of the path, protected by high hedges 
and a fine line of elm-trees, very shady and cool and. pleasant. So 
they walked along the soft velvet grass, which lined their road, and 
lingered at the door of the one wayside cottage, and further on gave 
loving salutation to the cottar’s cow, feeding among the sweet deep 
herbage, all spangled with wildflowers, and cool with the elm-tree’s 
shadow, which made her milk so rich and fragrant, and herself a 
household treasure and estate. The little village of Maidlin lay 
half-way between Blaelodge and Allenders, a hamlet of rude la- 
borers’ houses untouched by the hand of improvement, where 
■shrewish hens and sunburned children swarmed about the doors 
continually. There had been once a chapel here dedicated to the 
pensive Magdalen, and an old stone cross still stood in the center 
of the village, which— though there now remained no vestige of the 
chapel— retained the Scoticized name of the saint. 

“ There’s Dragon at the cross,” said Ivaiie Calder, tvlio was skip, 


132 


HARRY MUIR. 


ping on in advance, leaving Violet absorbed in a childish reverie be- 
hind, “ and he’s telling a .story to a’ the bairns. ” 

So saying, Katie, who did not choose to lose the story, ran for- 
ward; while Lettie, only half ‘awakened, aud walking straight on 
in an unconscious, abstracted fashion peculiar to herself, had time 
to be gradually, roused before she joined the little group which en- 
circled the Dragon of A1 lenders. 

He, poor old man, leaned against the cross, making a gesture now 
and then with those strange dangling arms of his, which called 
forth a burst of laughter, and scattered the little crowd around hiui 
for a moment, only to gather them closer the next. He was, indeed, 
telling a story— a story out oi the “ Arabian Nights,” which Violet 
herself had left in his room. 

“Ay, bairns, ye see I’m just ready,” said Dragon, finishing 
'*'* Sinbad the Sailor,” with a flourish of those long disjornted arms, 
“ Ouy divert does to pass the time when ane’s wailing, for ye’re a£E- 
putling monkeys, and might hae been here half an hour since — no 
to say there’s a grand dinner making at the house, and as many 
flowers pu'ed as would plenish a poor man’s garden, and Miss Rose 
dressed like a fairy in a white gown, aud ilka ane grander than 
anither. Whisht, wee laddies! do ye no see the twa missies carrying 
their ain books hame trae the school, and 1 maunna stop to tell ony 
mair stories to } r ou.” 

“ Come back the morn, Dragon.” “ Dinnaeat them, Dragon, or 
chain them up in your den.” “ If ye flo. I’ll come out and feclit 
ye!” cried the “ laddies ” of Maidlin Cross; for those sturdy young, 
sons of the soil, in two distinct factions, gave their fervent admira- 
tion 10 Katie and Violet, and would have been but too happy to- 
do battle for them on any feasible occasiou, 

“Have they come. Dragon?” asked Lettie. “Has Harry and 
Mr. Charteris come?” 

“ Nae word of them, nae word of them,” answered the Dragon. 
“ They’re in at Stilling doing their ain pleasure, ye may take my 
word for that. See, bairns, yonder’s Geornie Paxton, my sister’s 
son, coining in frae the Add. He’s very sune dune the nicht. Just 
you look at him as he gangs by, and see what an auld failed man 
lie is, aulder like than me.” 

Geordie, laden with his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, was 
returning home with those heavy, lengthened, Blow strides which 
almost persuade you that some great clod drags back the heavy- 
weighted footstep of the rustic laborer. Lie was a man ol fifty, 
witii bent shoulders and a furrowed face; but though their old at- 
tendant advanced to him at a pace which Geordie’s slow step could 
ill have emulated, the children, glancing up at the hale, brown, 
careworn face of the family father, and contrasting with t then- 
poor old Dragon’s ashy cheeks and wandering eyes, were by no 
means inclined to pronounce Geordie as old as his uncle. 

“ How’s a’ wi’ ye the day, auld man?” said the slow-spoken 
laborer. “ Aye danndering about in the auld way, 1 see. Aud 
how are ye liking the new family, uncle?” 

“ No that ill,” answered the old man. “ I’ve kent waur, to be 
such young cratiirs; aud to tell you the truth, Geordie, I feel just 
that 1 might be their faither, and that I’m appointed to take care 


HAKUY MUIR. 133 

o the puir things. Thae’s twa o’ the bairns, anrtour Mr. Hairv’s 
wean is weer than them still.” ■ 

u l ?u f 1 '* 8 a muckIe family on his hands, pnir lad,” said Geordie. 

lie 11 hae mair o’ his ain siller than the Allenders lauds, it’s like 
or he ne’er wou!d live in such grandeur. Your auld man never 
trud the like ot yon, uncle.” 

a 7’ bul Mr - Hair y bas a g^ud spirit,” said the Dragon; “ and 
what J or should he no have a’ thing fine about him, sic a fine young 
road” G1S? See yonder, he’s coming this very minute along the 

The boys were still giouped in a ring round Maidlin Cross; and 
as Dragon spoke a shrill cheer hailed the advent ot Harry’s carriage 
as it dashed along in a cloud ot dust toward Allenders. Harry him- 
self was driving, his face covered with smiles, but his hands hold- 
ing tight by the reins, and himself in a state of not very comfort- 
able excitement, at the unusual pace of the respectable horse, which, 
he had chafed into excilement too. In the carriage was Cliarteris 
looking grave and anxious, Gilbert Allenders, and another; but 
liarry could only nod, and Cuthbert bend over the side, ta bow and 
wave his hand to little Violet as they flew past. There was not 
really any danger, for Harry’s horse understood its business much 
bett< r than its driver did; but Harry himself was considerably 
alarmed, though Lis pride would not permit him to deliver up the 
reins into the hands ot John, who sat on the box by his side. 

Violet did not think of danger; but, without saying a word to 
any one, and indeed with a perfect inability to give a reason, she sat 
down upon the roadside grass, and cried. Dragon, who had added 
a feeble hurra to the cheer of the boys, bent down his white head 
anxiously, and Katie sat by her side and whispered, “ DinDa greet!” 
and Geordie looked on in hard, observant silence. But when Lettie 
lxse at last, and dried her eyes, and went on, neither her young 
companion nor her old one could glean from her what ailed her. 
“ Nothing— 3he did not know.” Poor little Lettie, she did not know 
indeed. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem 
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! 

The l'ose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 
For that sweet odor which doth in it live. 

Shakespeare. 

Sullen Demeyet lies mantled over with the sunshine which steals 
gradually further and further westward, penciling out. with a dar- 
ing touch his rugged shoulders, and throwing into deepest shadow, 
here and there, an abrupt ho'low on his side. - Tne trees of Allen- 
ders shadow the rivei just under the windows, but on either side 
the sun flashes off the dazzling water, as it it had a resistant power, 
and could repel the rays and throw them back with disdain and 
pride. Just now the little Stirling steamer, bound for Leith, has 
passed those overhanging trees, while up on their drooping branches, 
with the momentary force of sea surf, comes a great roll of foam- 
ing water displaced by the passing vessel, and rushing along the 



134 


HA11RY MUIR. 


green river-banks after it, like an insulted water god. There is al- 
ways some one at the east window of the Alhnders’ drawing-room 
when the steamer passes up or down, for it isapleasant sight, wind- 
ing hither and thither thiough the bright links of Foith, with its 
gay passengers and rapid motion, and gives to the broad landscape 
the animation which it needs. 

Bj r the east window at this present moment, Hose, and Rose alone, 
occup es the usual place. She wears a white gown, as Dragon said, 
and if scarcely selt possessed enough for a fairy, looks prettier and 
more delicate than usual, and has a slight tremor upon her, which 
she can neither subdue nor hide. Agnes, with little Hany in her 
arms, stanos on the turret, eagerly looking out for the returning 
carriage, while Martha at a lower window walches the same road. 
Fain would Rose take In r place, too, on the breezy turret, fain be 
the first to read in Harry’s eye how he has spent these hours iu 
Stilling; but no. Harry is not first just now iu the tl oughts of his 
shier. She is not thinking about any one. Rose would tell you in- 
dignantly; but nevertheless, she sits here with the most obstinate 
industry, at the east window wbeie it is impossible to obtain the 
least giimpse of the road, and trembles a little, and drops her 
needle, and thinks she can hear every lcat fall, and can tell when a 
fly alights on the gravel walk, so keen is her ear tor every sound. 

And now there conies through the drawn curtains of the west 
window, which at present is full of sunshine, the sound of a great 
commotion; and carriage- wheels dash over the gravel, and Agnes 
flies down-stairs, and Harry t ails loudly to John, who has sprung 
from his peich to catch the excited horse by the head, and calm him 
down, that the gentlemen may alight in safety. The color comes 
and goes upon Rose’s cheek, and her fingers shake so. that she 
scarcely can hold the needle, but she sits still; and though Harry’s 
laugh immediately after rings stiangely on her ear, and she listens 
with sudd' n anxiety tor Ins voice, Rose never leaves her window — 
for another voice there has spoken too. 

By and by a sound of footsteps and voices come up the stair, and 
Rose suddenly commanding herself, raises her head and becomes 
elaborately calm and self-possessed. Alas, poor Rose! for the door 
ot' the drawing room opens, and the voices pause without, but there 
only enters —Gilbert Allenders. 

Gilbert Allenders and a stranger like himself— an intimate of his, 
whom he 1ms persuaded Harry into acquaintance w ith. No one 
know? that Rose is here; no one thinks ot her, indeed, but the guest 
of honor wdio is being conducted to his owu room, and who does 
not at all admire the loud greeting in w r hich Mr. Gilbert Allenders 
expresses his delight at finding her; but poor Rose, returning those 
greetings with intense pride, disappointment and reserve, could al- 
most cry, as she finds herself compelled to be amiable to Harry’s 
friend. And now she has time to grow painfully anxious about 
Harry himself, and to think of his excited voice and laughter, and 
>to shiver with sudden tear. 

While Rose sits thus, Martha, with so still a step that you can 
not hear her enter, comes gliding into the room like a ghost. With 
the old feverish solicitude, the younger sister seeks the elder’s eve; 
shut Rose learns nothing from the unusual gayety of Martha’s face’ 


HARRY MUIR. 


135 



Indeed the smile, so forced and extreme, and the light tone in which 
her grave sister immediately begins to speaK — speaking, too, so very* 
much more than her wont — terrifies Kose. Thesirangers see nothing 
more than a proper animation, and Gilbert Alleuders relaxes and 
condescends to notice Martha; but Hose steals out in wonder and 
terror, fearing she knows not what. 

There is nothing to tear— nothing— say it again, Rose, that your 
loving, anxious heart may be persuaded. Harry stands by the table, 
in liis dressing room, unfolding a great bale of beautiful silk to the- 
wondering eyes ot Agnes; and though Harry is a little more voluble 
than usual, and 1ms an unsteady glimmer in his eye, and a continual 
smile, winch reminds her of some sad liome-comings of old, there 
is in reality nothing here to make any one unhappy. Nothing-— 
nothing — but Rose’s heart grows sick with its own contused, quick 
throbs as she lingers, lookiug injyt the door, 

“ Come along here. Rosie; looK what I have been getting a lecture 
for ” cried Harry, looking up from the table. “ It seems \liat Agnes 
needs no more gowns. C'une here, and see if there is anything tor 

^ And Rose, who was by no means above the usual girlish vanities, 
but liked to see pretty things, and liked to wear them, went in very 
quickly — much more anxious than curious, it is tiue, b it neverthe- 
less owning to a little curiosity as well. 

“ oh Rose see what Harry has brought me,” said Agnes, breath- 
less with delight, deprecation and fear; “ such a splendid silk, while 
and blue! but it’s too grand. Rose— do you not think so? And this 
quiet-coiored one — it is quite as rich, though— is for Martha; and 
here is yours — pink, because your hair is dark, Harry says. 

And as A^nes spake, Ilarrv caught up the radiant pink silk glist- 
ening with its rich hiocaded flowers, and threw it upon Rose, cover- 
in 0 ’ her simple muslin gown. To say that Rose s first impiession 
was not pleasure would be untrue— or that she did not bestow a 
glance of affectionate admiration upon thetlwee varieties of llarry ;s 
choice. But the eyes that sought them for a moment sought again 
with a lengthened, wist till gaze Ins own flushed and happy face. 
And Harry was considerably excited — that was all -and it was so 

very easy to account for that. , . 

“ But iust now, you know, we can not afford it, said Agnes, 
gathering her own silK into folds, which she arranged scientihcal y 
on her arm, and looking at it with her head on one side as she held 
it in different lights. “ 1 never saw anything so beautiful--it s just 
too grand; hut then the price, Harry!” 

“ Don’t you trouble yourself about the price, said Harry, gay ly. 
“You’ve nothing to do hut to be pleased with them; no, nor Martha 
either- tor do you think, after securing that oid wife’s siller, that I 
may not indulge myself with a silk gown or two? And ifrnywie 
and my sisters won’t wear them, why I can on y wear them myself 
There, there’s some cobweb muslin stuff m the parcel for the two 
of you young ladies, and something for Lettie and her friend, and 
something for our heir; hut away with you now, girls, and let me 
dress, and say nothing about the money. 

Ah! hapless Miss Jean Calder! it but you could have heard and 
seen the doings of this zealous agricultural improver, whose leso- 


HARRY MUIR. 


136 

lute purpose of doubling the value of his newly-acquired lands, 
drew your beloved “siller” out of its sate concealment, what a 
wailing banshee shriek had rung then through these sunny i- oms 
of Al lenders ! ISot on strong tattle and skillful implements— not 
on the choice seed and the prepared soil — but on the vanities you 
have scorned through all your envious life-time — to deck the fair 
young tonns, whose gladsome breath you grudge to them — that 
your gold, thebeloved of your heart, should be squandered thus! 
Alas, poor miser! But Miss lean even now clutches her mortgage 
parchment, with the glitterof malicious power in her c»dd blue eyes. 
Let them squander who will — she has secured herself. 

And Martha, even in her heart, does not Bay, “Poor Harry!” 
No, Martha, for the first time, tries to blind herself with false hope 
— tries to dismiss all her old anxious love from her heart, and be 
careless, and take no thought for the morrow. She has determined 
to think of Hairy’s errors as other people think — to call them ex- 
uberances, tollies of youth, and to smile with gentle indulgence, in- 
stead of sorrowing in stern despair. For Hairy is a man— head of 
a household; aud Martha tries to endure placidly — tries to persuade 
herself that there is nothing to endure— knows that lie must be 
left now to himself to make his own fate. T<>-dav she sees, as no 
other eve can see, the beginning of peril, and Harry’s excitement, 
excusable though it may be, aud constantly as she herself excuses 
it, has wrought in Martha a kindred agitation. She wli not permit 
herself to grieve or to fear; but sad is this assumed light-hearted- 
ness which Rose trembles to see. 

Meanwhile Rose and Agnes, who have carried off Hurry’s gifts 
belween them are laughing and crying together over the store. It 
maybe imprudent— it maybe extravagant; but it is “ so kind of 
Harry!” lie is so anxious to give them plea jure 

And Air Charteris, in the drawing-room, talks to Martha with 
some abstraction, and coldly withdraws himself from the elegant 
conversation of Mr. Gilbert Ai lenders. Cuthbert can not under- 
stand why Rose should avoid him; and he feels the blood warm at 
his heart with the pride to which neglect is grievous. But, at the 
same time, he is troubled and depressed, and looks with a yearning 
lie never knew before at the closed door, and speaks little, lest he 
should lose the sound of the approaching footstep, which he remem- 
bers to be so light. The room is full of roses, though now in July 
their flush of beauty is nearly over. Roses red and white, the deli- 
cate blush and the burning purple; but Outhbert would throw them 
all into the liver joyfully for one glimpse of his Lady Rose. 

This love-fit sits strange on the grave advocate — he does not quite 
understand how. of all men in the world, it should have found out 
him— and its effect is singular. It moves him. oerlfaps, by the 
power if those circumstances which hang over this family like a 
continual cloud, tu a halt-sorrowful tenderness for everything 
young and gentle. It does not occur to Cuthbert to inquire why 
liis constant dream is to comfort, to console, to carry away the Rose 
of Allendera, and hear her tenderly in his arms out of sorrow and 
trial. Tins is the aspect under which he instinctively views the 
conclusion of his growing ^affection. Sometimes, indeed, there 
break upon him fair visions of a bride in the sunshine, a home glad- 


HARRY MUIIl. 


137 


dened by a joyous, youthful voice, and smiles like the morning; 
hut the usual cut rent ot Cutlibert’s fancies present to him a far-off: 
glimpse ot happiness., chastened and calmed by sufleiing; and his 
hope is to deliver her out ot some indefinite gloom and tvil, to de- 
liver and c»rrv her home into a gentle lest. 

And t lie shadow ot this visionary double to come, throws a ten- 
dei pathos over Rose in the eyes of her true knight, His stout heart 
melts when he sees her, with an indescribable softening — as it he 
extended his arms involuntarily, not so much to inclose her for his 
own content, as to ward off unseen impending dangers, and keep 
her sate by his care. Nevertheless, Cuthbert feels his cheek bum 
with quick indignant anger, and starts and frowns in spite of him- 
self, when he perceives that Gilbert Allenders gives Ins arm— again 
with considerable demonstration — to the shy, reluctant Rose. : 

Harry is new to his duties as host, and perhaps his attention to 
his guests is slightly urgent and old- fashioned but Harry is in 
triumphant spirits, and throws his radiant good humor and satisfac- 
tion over them all like a great light. Not without a secret misgiv- 
ing at the bottom of their hearts, Rose and Agnes make strong 
efforts to rise to Harry's pitch, if it were but to persuade themselves 
how innocent and blameless is Harry’s exhilaration; and Martha 
continues to smile and speak as Rose never heard her speak before. 
It is quite a gay dinner table. 

The time glides on, the ladies leave the dining-room; hut when 
they are alone, after some foiced effoits to keep it up, their gayety 
flags, and one after another glides to her accustomed seat, and sub- 
sides into unbroken silence. It is true that the rejoicings of Violet 
and Katie over the new frocks which Harry has not failed to bring 
for them, make a little episode, and sustain the animation fora short 
time -but the sure reaction comes; and now they sit still, one pro- 
fessing to read and the others worthing, but all casting anxious looks 
toward the dour. 

By and by comes laughter and voices and ringing footsteps up 
the stair, but only Cliarteris enters the drawing-room ; tor Harry and 
his other fiiemls are climbing further up to the turret, where he has 
fitted up a little “ den,” as Gilbert Allenders calls it, for himself. 
And their good friend, Mr. Cliarteris, looks very grave; they think 
Hairy lias lowered himself in Cuthbert ’s eyes— they think this seri- 
ousness is the painful regret with which a stroug man sees a weak 
one sink under temptation; and their heaits flutter within them with 
restless anxiety, and they listen to Harry’s laugh in the distance till 
its echo makes them sick. While, all the time, Cuthbert is too much 
interested not to notice how uneasily the young wite moves upon 
her chair and the abstraction from which Martha starts with a dis- 
mal resolution to be gav again. Poor Hairy! But Cuthbert stands 
behind the chair of Rose, and feels that he is consoling her— feels 
that he is occupying with his presence something of the space which, 
without him, might have been wholly given to anxiety and fear. 

The children aie already out under the windows, playing on the 
lawn; and, at Cuthberl’s suggestion, Rose and Martha accompany 
him to the mall on the riverside. He tells them- how he admired 
this when he came first with Harry to see Allenders, and that he 
often fancies how they must enjoy this verdant cloister when he is- 


HARRY MUIR. 


138 

shut up in his office at Edinburgh. The sun slants in through the 
gnat oak which lounds the end of the mall, and just touches here 
and there a heavy alder leaf, and lights up one little branch upon a 
stately elm, with tender golden rays, cool and dewy; and there is 
•wind enough to disturb the long willow branches and ruffle the 
fleecy lining of their leaves. A nairow stiip of path, sandy and 
yellow, bieaks the soft green turf which slopes down to the water 
on one side, and on the other, rich with flower-beds, stretches up in 
a slight incline to the walls of Alhnders; and Cuthbert with 
Martha on his arm, walks slowly, silently, looking afier the while 
figure which has strayed a step or two before. Slightly tinning to- 
ward them, with a shy, half conscious look backward, Rn^e says 
something to Martha about the wild flowers in the grass and Rose 
guesses, with a tremor, that Cuthbert lias bud visions of herself un- 
der the shadow of these trees, and feeis that his eye just now is 
dwelling upon her, and that he is saying words to her in his heart. 
But the charmed silence lasts, and even Maltha, looking on, has 
not the heart to break its spell. 

But look up yonder at the turret. With the sun glancing in his 
hair, Hairy stands in the battlemented gallery, and holds up a glass 
of sparkling wine, and hows and smiles, and drinks to them. Im- 
mediately b: »th tne sisters look at Cuthbert; and Cuthbert, with a 
gavety lie does not feel, takes off his hat, and re'uins the salutation 
with playful stateliness. His gesture cheers them, and they be- 
come again quite tremulously glad, when he calls to Harry to come 
down, and Harry nods in assent, and disappears upon the turret 
stair. It is true that the momentary smile flits a way from Cutli- 
bert’s face, and he becomes very serious. But they are looking tor 
Harry — they do not see the deep regret and gravity which clouds 
the brow of his friend, who, within himself, says “ Poor Harry!” 
"with a heavy sigh. 

And Harry is now more excited than ever, and they are constant- 
ly calming and soothing him to keep him within bounds — trying to 
be gay themselves that bis unreal gayety may be less marked — and 
carefully avoiding everything which could possibly irritate his feel- 
ings. Poor Harry! some wistful eye is always following him, some 
solicitous vc ice constantly interposing tQ bringdown, to the ordinary 
quietness and moderation bis unconscious extravagance — eyes 
which are afraid to meet— afraid to confide to each other, even by a 
glance, this new pain which Harry has brought upon them; for 
hitherto they have seen principally the remorse which followed his 
tall, and never before have beheld others conscious, of what so 
greatly humiliated themselves Now the sneer and patronizing for- 
bearance of Gilbert Allenders, who has too cool a head to be moved 
as Harry is, chafes Martha beyond endurance, and excites the gentle 
little Agnes to such a pilch of anger, that her hand clinches invol- 
untarily, and she could almost strike bin in a burst ot weeping 
petulance But the long, long painful hours pass away, and at last 
it is night. 

“ It is nothing — it is nothing. Nobody thinks anything of this 
but us. We are always so anxious!” sobs Agnes, as she wakes in 
the middle ot the night, and weeps; but Martha, who does not need 
to wake — who has never slept -suffers her heart to say nothing, but 


HARRY MUIR. 139 

only prays, and tries to forget— tries to think of anything rather 
than 11 any; and can not weep, it she should try forever. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

And gentle hands the breakfast-rite begin, 

Then the bright kettle sings its matin song, 

Then fragrant clouds of Mocha and Souchong 
Blend as they rise. 

Rogers. 

“ Who i3 that out there, leading the horse?” said Agnes, with 
some anxiety. 

The snowy linen and bright silver and china of the breakfast table- 
sparkle ir the sunshine. At a corner, Violet and Katie sit before a 
covered tray, hastily taking their pnriidge; for the breakfast is 
much later Ilian usual this morning, and the children are in great 
haste, lest they should be too late tor school. Rose is working at 
the corner window— the new window, where the white rose-bush 
nods up to her, and lays a snowy fragrant present of buds upon the 
wiudow-ledge; but Martha stauds silently, as she stood last morn- 
ing, to watch Harry go away, and again pulls with unconscious 
fingers the jasmine flowers. 

‘‘ Who is that?” repeated Agnes. 

It is only a groom leading up and down, on the broad gravel walk 
at the other side of the lawn, a fine horse, stately and impatient,, 
which scorns its limited space, and paws the gravel disdainfully, 
and arches its proud neck to the infinite admiration of the Dragon 
and John, who stand by the holly hedge as spectators. Katie and 
Violet, attracted by the repetition of Agues’s ques'iou, rush from 
the window to the door to asceitain; and after a brief conversation 
with Dragon, Violet returns, breathless, with the information, that 
it is a new riding-horse, sent out this morning from Stirling, where 
Harry bought it yesterday; but that Dragon says it is too wild a 
hoise for any but a bold rider, aud that it is sure to throw Mr- 
Hairy. 

“ Tell Dragon he’s an old fool, and that he had better think what 
lie says,’' said Harry himself, who suddenly made his appearace as 
Violet spoke; “ aud you, Lettie, mind your own business, and don’t 
be so officious in reporting what everybody tells you. Why don’t 
you get these children off to school, Agnes? Yes, it’s my horse. I 
hope no one has any objection.” 

Poor Harry! in this morning light, his own conscience baa 
weighty objections, and upbraids hm with f oil v and extravagance. 
But Harry teels miserable, and is not well— angry with himself, 
aud defiant of all axouud him — and he feels himself bound in honor 
to defend his horse. 

But no one attacks it: poor little Agues is only anxious and depre- 
catory, eagei to smile away his impatience, and cheer the depression 
which she very well knows is sure to follow; while Martha still 
stands at the open wiudow, without ever turning her head, and va- 
cantly draws the long, pliant branch of jasmine through her fingers,, 
and says net a word. 


HARRY MUIR. 


140 

They are just going away,” said Agnes, hastily tying on the 
bonnet which Lett ie bad brought in her hand; “ they have just break- 
lasted, you see, Harry. We are rather late this morning; and Mr. 
•Cbarteris is not down-stars yet, ” 

Harry lett the room immediately, and went out. The arrival of 
this horse did him -good— dispersing the clouds at his depression, 
nnd its consequent ill-humor —and before he returned to the break- 
last-room, Harry had consoled his conscience by a resolution to be- 
gin immediately his agiicultural labors, and to spend no more ot 
Miss Jean’s money, except lawfully, on the object for which he bor- 
rowed it. 

When he re-entered the room, Cnthbevt was there, and Harry had 
to smooth his brow and welcome his guest. A ernes, still halt trem- 
bling, and growing talkative in her anxiety to restore ease to the con- 
versation, found herself, to’ her great delight and astonishment, sec- 
onded by Martha, as they took their places round the table. And 
the still composure ot Martha’s manner did more for tliie end, than 
the tremulous eagerness of the little wife. They regained the every- 
day tone, the every day level of quietness and repose; and Agnes 
began to flatter herself that nothing unusual had happened last 
night after all, anil Harry to think that his conscience blamed him 
unjustly: only the sickness in Martha’s heart lay still, uneased, and 
undisturbed. She was done with struggling- now she had only to 
wait for what it pleased God to reveal. 

Charteris was to stay a week, and numerous excursions were dis- 
cussed at the breakfast-table. It was a relief to them all, to have 
these things to speak about; but Cuthbert exerted himself to-day to 
gain the confidence ot Harry, and did in some degree gain it. They 
spoke together ot the projected improvements; and though Harry 
said with a little braggadocio that it was “ an old rich aunt ” who 
bad given him the necessary capital, he was tolerably frank about 
his intentions, and very glad to receive introductions to some agri- 
cultural authorities whom Cuthbert knew. They walked together 
over the farm which the tenant was to leave at Martinmas, and to- 
gether commented on the lean and scanty crops, which sparely cov- 
ered the half-cultured soil. It was a fresh showery day, enlivened 
by a light breeze, whicn brought down the chiller breath ol the hills 
over the green lowland country; and as this wind, waved about his 
hair, and blew the sparkling rain against his cheeks, Harry strug- 
gled under the uneasy burden od his heart, and tried to throw it 
off, and let it vex him no more. ” Forgetting the things that are 
behind,” he muttered to himself, as they paused on a little emi- 
nence, and saw the sun touch into brilliant lignt a thousand rain- 
drops among the waving corn, and on the roadside trees — tor still 
a heavy consciousness gnawed at his heart, and compelled hjm to 
try some bargain with it for rest — and Harry gladly turned to look 
away from the past, into the broad life which lay before him, as 
blight as this sunny strath, though, like it, dewed with tears; and 
in the future his sanguine eyes again saw nothing but hope. 

“ Forgetting the things that aie behind!” Alas, poor Harry! tor 
it was only too easy to forget. 

But there followed a few days of cheerful activity, the very first 
of which dissipated into thin air the last lemnant of Harry’s re- 


HARRY MUIR. 141 

morsef ill consciousness— i or Cuthbert and he rode together to call 
on some of the agricultural authorities before mentioned, and take 
counsel with them — not always sweet — concerning all the processes 
of the warfare which should subjugate this stubborn soil; and Har- 
ry advertised in the local newspapers for a manager to take charge 
•of his farming operations, ana Heard of one Defore his advertise- 
ment was printed, so suitable, as it seemed, in every respect, that 
Harry, fearing he might not wait till Martinmas, engaged him out 
of hand in July, that no one else might seize on such a treasure. 

Not only so— but Harry, whose pride had been greatly hurt by 
Dragon’s implied opinion that he was a timid rider, subdued his 
horse, at no small cost to his own nerves, and rode a dozen mi es to 
n cattle-show, partly in selt-assertion, partly to acquire some knowl- 
edge of “ the beasts,” which his agricultural instructors discoursed 
of 30 learnedly; but Harry was not the man to study beasts, and his 
long ride exhausted him, though it was a triumph.’ Heliad settled 
matters, however, with his conscience, which now rather applauded 
than condemned — and Harry was content. 

Poor Harry! but when Cuthbert ’s week was cut, he said those 
words with eyes that glistened, and a yearning heart ; for Harry was 
born to be loved, and amid all his faults, and all the unconscious 
selfishness of his indulgences, he never lost this natural portion. 

And Cuthbert, leaving behind him a bright, cheerful, hopeful 
household, as ready to be exhilarated as depressed, had said nothing 
to Rose — for he himself had little y< t to share with any one, and he 
was afraid to risk his affectionate interest with the family as friend 
and counselor, even for the chance of at'aining the nearer and still 
more affectionate connection for which he hoped. And Cuthbert 
in his tenderness of protection and succor, exaggerated the difference 
between his age and hers; he only thought himself likely to suc- 
ceed at all, by the gentle and gradual piocess of wooing, which 
might accustom and attach her to him before she was aware. So 
he went away quietly, leaving, it is true, many token? which spoke 
to Rose a strange, unusual language, showing her how much space 
she occupied in the heart and thoughts of this man, who, ot all men 
she had ever seen, held the highest place. And Rose trembled and 
smiled with indefinite delight as words and looks came to her re- 
membrance-looks and words which Cuthbert had feared would 
alarm and- startle her, but which even his selr-command could not 
restrain. There is a charm in this guessed and implied affection 
which perhaps no certainty has; and Rose, whose thoughts had not 
yet taken shape or form, whose shy, womanly heart shrunk even 
from believing itself beloved, and who would have denied the be- 
lief strenuously, had she asked herself the question in so many 
words — Rose suffered a bright mist of reverie to float about her, 
and was thrilled now and then with apprehensions and revelations, 
starting out lialf-dislinct for a moment, and anon disappearing into 
the sunny maze. It was an idle mood, and sent her straying along 
the river-side, and seated her for hours together under the oak, 
with vague smiles and blushes flitting ovei her face, and many a 
dream in her heart; but yet her needle flew swiftly too under this 
mist, and she could be very well content witu silence, for thq long 
indefinite musings of her romance were sweet to Rose. 


HARRY MUIR. 


142 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

A good old man, Sir; he will be talking; as they say, when the age is in, the 
wit is out .— Much Ado About Nothing. 

“ And, Dragon, you mind you promised the very first day- but 
you never told us yet the story of the Lady’s Well.” 

“ Have you ever been to see it, bairns?” asked the old man. 

The children were seated on the outside stair, which led lo Drag- 
on’s room. Violet, at least, sat on the upper step, with a book on 
her lap, and a total disappearance of feet, which suggested a sus- 
picion that Lettie patronized the Turkish manner of seating her/sel£ 
rather Ilian the English. Katie, who had a larger share of boldness- 
than her friend, was jumping from the stair to the ground, mount- 
ing a step higher tor every leap, while Dragon stood on the thresh- 
old of his own door, dangling his thin long arms, and talking to 
them with his usual animation. It was not yet the hour “ when the 
kye come liame,” and the two little girls, who constantly attended, 
>lysie during the process of milking, were waiting for her appear- 
ance; besides that, they very generally chose to learn their lessons 
on Dragon’s steps, having a facility of interruption here, which 
they could attain to in no other place. 

‘‘Eh, no— we’ve never been there!” cried Katie; ‘‘and Mysie’a 
no away yet to bring the cow. We’ve plenty time. Will you come. 
Dragon, and let us see it now?” 

‘‘ I’m no heeding— if you’re sure you would like to gang,” said 
the old man. “ But then, how am 1 to ken that you’ve got a’ your 
lessons bye, and that it’s lawful to take ye? for, you see, bairns that 
dinna aitend to their learning, have nae claim to diversion; and,. 
Missie, you’re no dune wi’ your book yet. ” 

“ But it’s just grammar, Dragon,” said Lettie, disconsolately, 
*' and it’s no use trying to learn it till L’m to say it, for I aye forget 
till it’s just the time. Eh, Katie, you couldna jump oft here.” 

‘‘ Ye’re naue o’ ye gaun to jomp and break banes at my door. 
I’ll no hae myself brocht in a doctor’s bill, like the way the auld 
maister brocht in Eppie for the Muckle bowl she broke,” said 
Dragon. ‘‘ Gang quiet down the steps, bairns, or L’ll no let you 
come here ony mair. And now, you see, wee’ll take this road, and 
we’ll sune be at the Lady’s Well.” 

The road was a solitary lane, looking deep and cool under the 
shadow of high thorn hedges, through which the delicate white 
convolvulus had darned its fairy leaves and tendrils. Here and there 
in the hedge-row, an old low oak. long shorn of all its branches, stood 
alone like some strong ruin, with a growth of pliant twigs, and 
young foliage waving over the bald trunk as they might have waved 
over a moss-grown wall. The ruddy clouds of the sunset were rap- 
idly fading from the west, and already a meek young moon glanced 
shyly over the head of Deineyet; but it w^as still full daylight, and 
the children skipped along gayly by Dragon’s side, keeping an eye 
on tkb field, whence Mailie, the brown cow, began to iow her im- 


HARRY MUIR. 


143 


patient summons to her maid; but the maid did I not make H, erap- 

^s^ssssssssh 

sSs2S2iSsi*'a^&^S 

M^-r^swrsSSs 

tag I eaves. The Utile *r a protecting 

craiUe, 'whife Violet - t K 

S& 

of the place, shut in on every t^sur ro Zm ? he hollowed 

the silvery tinkle with winch \ h ® TstenVr thread over the 

>edge ot the basin, and passed a } under the thick con- 

bleached pebbles of its narrow channel d “ rt ®£ outrll lhe earth 

trunk of a young willow, cu hable life \ n ] 0 ng shoots 

which was already throwing o » . « AUenders and he had 

£ SSi" iWt? 

bairns.' yTn beget.ingyour death ofcauld in this dowie place, and 
th ‘ "b li t me"! ad y S1 Dr agon— the” ady /’ exclaimed Violet, whose in- 

about the house but heTS ^’ a f th ® au id laird living solitary, 

mother, nor sister, nor J^FPiUders at the wars; so Leddv Violet 
and the young ane awt-y .in . FUuAen at her lane> nud had aa 

ga’ed wandering abouUhe w er . d£ ^ ^ ^ Btane 

awfu wark wi of strange interest passed over 

you’re sitting on, MiMie, ( and drank the water in a silver 

Let tie), ‘and came Uka d y • ain thoughts tor company, tilt 

cup, and sat upon die -ea, then beg;ia to take note ot her, 

the spit its that were in ti * w e ll. Some say she began 

s$ SSs ssts % 

^ ; at\r y :tVoorto e saUs t yo a n'y , nan .hat inquired mtoit.” 


144 


HARRY MUIR. 


“ But there came a braw gentleman to the country-side that had 
a grand cas:le someway in the Lennox, and great friends among 
the Highland chiefs; and ae day, whence was gaun wandering by 
the links of Foith, he In aid music in t lie air, aud-ga’ed on and on, 
following after it, till it led him by the very road we came this 
niclit, and brought him to where Reddy Y io et was silting by the 
well. And what should tins be but a sma’ fairy, that nad a lad 
hersel, nac doubt, and Jik.it Leddy Yiolet, and didna ken what 
grand company guid thoughts were, but aye lamented ower the 
bonnie ledtly, her lane and solitary in the wood. Ane canna tell 
now what kind of spirits tliae fairies were, but nae doubt they had 
discrimination; for it even tinned out sae, that the leddy herself 
likit the braw lad’s company better than her ain thoughts.” 

“ En, Dragon, are you sure there’s nae fairies now?’ ' asked Katie 
Calder. 

“ He’ll tell us the morn. 1 want to hear about the lady, Dragon?” 
said the eager Vdo'et. 

“ 1 never saw ony,” said the old man, mysteriously, “ whiles 
I’ve heard folk say— but I’ll n > tell you that, or you’ll be feared.” 

44 What is it. Dragon?” exclaimed both the childien in a breath. 

44 They say in moonlight nighis, the fairies have a feast here, and 
get then wine out ot the well and that there’s aye some about in 
the gloaming spreading the tables; but they’ll no meddle wi’ ye, if 
you’re guid bail us.” 

Violet shaded her eyes with her hand, and looked intently under 
the brush wood, to one spot of bright reflected light uporrthe water. 
She did not speak, but with a shiver of fascination and awe watched 
the slender current steal away under the leaves, and devoutly be- 
lieved that sue had seen the golden vessels of the fairy feast; but 
even this did not make her foiget the story, and again she repeated,, 
44 The lady, Dragon, the lady,” 

44 Weel, bairns, ye see it was the spring season then,” resumed 
Dragon, 44 and there was a lang summer-time to come — bonnie days 
— we never have the like ot them now— when Leddy Yiolet was 
constant at the ell. And the lad— they ca’ed him Sir Hairy — came 
and went, and lay on the grass at her teet, and courted her, and 
sung to her, and made his reverence, till she learned to think, poor 
lassie, that there wasna a man like him in a’ the woila. So he got 
acquaint at Her father’s house, and courted the auld laird tor her, 
and was about A1 lenders night and day; and at last it came to pass 
that they were to be married. 

41 Now. ye see, having mair to do now, when she was soon to be 
a married wife, she never got out to her auld wanderings, but sat 
with her maids, and saw them make gowns ot silk and satin for the 
grand bridal; and this very same sma’ fairy that first brought the 
gentleman to see her, had cast out with her ain lad by this time, 
and was in a sorrowful humor, and could not keep her hand from 
aye meddling with the leddy’s concerns. So what did she do, for 
fin imp of mischief as she maun hae been, but flee away to Sir Hai- 
ry's ain land, and gather I kenna how mony stories of him; to- he 
had been but a wild lad in his young days, and was nae better than 
he should be even then. And 1 canna tell ye, bairns, what art magic 
it was dune by, but this 1 ken, that it a’ came to Leddy Violet’s 


HAU11Y MUIR. 


145 


ain ears — every word o’t. Now ye maim mind, that for her am 
se U she was like a saint; no a wee new-boru bairn, nor ane ot the 
like of you, mair innocent than her, though she was a woman grown. 
And nae suner had she heard chis, than her maid that was wi her, 
was aware of a sound like the snapping o’ a string. Na, Missie, ye- 
couldna guess what that was— it. was a sairer thing than you ever 
heard tell o’ a’ your days— it was Leddy Violet s heart 

Violet had fixed her dilating melancholy eyes, in which the tears 
were fast swelling, upon the old man’s face, and sat. leaning her 
head upon her hands, bent forward with the dtepest attention; 
while Katie, arrested suddenly in the very act of balancing herself 
upon the little canopy, turned a look of eager interest upon him, till 
released by this conclusion she slipped down, and P^ced herself 
very quietly on the fallen tree by his side. In Ins monotonous, half- 
chantiug voice, the old man proceeded. , , . . 

“ The wedding was put <■£?, and naebody kent what for, for Led- 
dv Violet had a wise heart, and wouldna send him away till she 
was sure. But there came a snay-bearded man to the gate in the 
nio-iu and asked to see her— what he said nae man kent; but when 
the morning broke, Leddy Violet was silting at her am window 
gripping her hands fast, with a face as wan as the dead and he 

bonuie gold hair upon her head a’ coversd vn flakes of white like 
snaw. "But she rose up and cried upon her serving- woman, and put 
on her wedding-gown. It was a’ white and glistenmg-the auld 
brocade that you read about in books, wrought with flowers, and 
blander than you ever saw. And then she put her bride s veil on 
her head and went away with a slow, stately step out of Allenders. 
The serving- woman in tear and trembling creepit away alter her 
hiding undei the hedges along the whole road, and she mindit often 
that the leddy didna meet a single living person a the way— for she 

“wuu'aVuiteroi 0 excitem^ and wonder the children looked 
round them, and drew closer to Dragon; but the old man went 

Ste “'lt y w°as' lust like half-licbt, and the woman could see naelhing 
but the leddy with her grand glisteuing gown and her veil about 
In m stately ulang ihe quiet road. When she came to he 
Web she fat down upon life atane, and crossed her hands upon her 
i rwi rirnnnit her bead* but there came a noise ol folk upon the 

breast, and dro(>pit her hea^ ni woman ran to see what it 

w^s Ste loo“st and she looked west, but there was,, a so 
much as a shadow on ll.e ha, 11 way; and then she was scared and 
feared ami ran without a stop till she wan hame. ^ 

“ Put never mortal man saw Leddy Violet mair. 

••F Drlgon' where did she go?” cried Katie Calder under her 
hrpini. but S Violct only cast timid looks round her and almost 
n 1 c p rould nerceive in the half-light of this other gloaming, 
glimmerings of theThhe garments through the close foliage of the 

tre .f, tell ve Mis9ie , nae moital on this earth kens that ” said the 
Dragon of Vendem; “ but, bairns, ye'll be gelling cauld-and 1 11 

tel 'C& B ,\Tus”therest,” pleaded Violet; but she looked 


HARRY MUIR. 


146 

behind her and before her, and almost believed she felt the cold 
hand of the we rd lady laid upon her shoulder. 

“ They sought her up and down through the whole country, but 
the wise and auld among them, kent full well that they would never 
get. her; and from that clay to this, nae man has ever seen her, nor 
kens she’s dead, and away to heaven, or it she’s livng aye a charmed 
life in the fairy-land. It’s my hope she’s in heaven this hundred 
years— but ane can never tell." 

“ And, Dragon, what about Sir Harry?" asked Katie Calder, tim- 
idly. 

“ Sir Hairy was like to gang distraught. He came here and sat 
upon that stane, day after day for a whole year; and it was him 
caused bring the stane bowl, and pit the carved wark ower the 
spring; and at the end of the year he died. 

“ That’s a’ the story, bairns; but, Missie, you that’s fond of bal- 
lants, there’s ane the leddy made, and that her woman heard her 
rhvming ower the day she ga’ed away. I have been trying to mind 
it a’ this time. It used to have a tune in the country-side. 1 could 
ance sing it grand mysel — and it you’ll be awfu’ quiet, I’ll try — 

“ The night wind rose amang the hills, 

But the glen was lown and gray, 

When she drew her veil about her head 
And went upon her way. 

And she has gathered the green willow 
To lay on the threshold stane, 

And the yew and the rue in the chalmer of state, 

That the house might be kent for desolate 
When she was lost and gane. 

“ Oh ! father, kindly fare ye well, 

• Good may your last days be. 

And God send your son were hame in peace, 

Since ye’ll nae joy in me. 

And though ye have made a desert, Harry, 

And grief s'l mayna tell. 

Where ance dwelt mony a pleasant thing, 

Yet Harry, fare ye well! 

44 But wae unto the man. Harry, 

Within this house shall dwell, 

And bears the name that breaks my heart, 

Though I say fare ye well ! 

The night wind cries among the trees, 

I ken what words they be, 

And I maun hence to bruik your pain, 

But wae to him that bears the name 
Which is the dead of me." 

It was nearly dark now, and the cracked and quivering voice of 
age rung stransreiy through the night. Violet felt the leaves rustle 
about her, and shrunk from the elfin touch of the long willow shoots 
which thrust themselves into her hand, and cast furtive, timid 
glances round, trembling lest she should see the stately white lady, 
with her drooped head and her bridal veil, sitting under the trees. 
Katie was bolder, and understood the ballad; but Lettie s attention, 
constantly drawn to some imaginary stir among the brushwood, or 
wandering reflection on the water, and arrested by the singular 
ghostly effect of the old man’s shrill voice and ashy face, failed to 
make anything of tne verse which ended his story. The water 


HARRY MUIR. 


147 




trickled away unseen under the leaves— the saugh tree turned out 
ils fleecy lining to the night wind, which began to tremble among 
its branches— mystic fluttering* shook the long grass and limber 
brambles— and Lettie sat on the stone seat where Lady Violet sat 
before her, and trembled to her very heart. Little Katie Calder, 
p< king about into the ctarK mysterious underwood, tilt only a little 
unpleasant thrill of apprehension, and was not afraid -for Katie 
could very well trust an imagination which never had played pranks 
with her; but an awe of the dark road borne possessed Lettie. Bhe 
was afraid to remain in this weird comer, and afraid to go away. 

“ Mailie’s milkit halt an hour since," said Dragon, getting up 
with his usual activity, and shaking the long arms which Violet 
half suspected were fastened on with wires, “ and the haill house 
will be asteer wondering what’s come of us. Bairns, we’ll get our 
lickB it we stay lauger— and I’m wearying for my parritch mysel’.’ 

But Lettie went along the dark lane, under the high hedge, 
which might have concealed armies of fairies, and looked behind 
her with furtive sidelong looks, wistful and afraid. The road was 
very solitary and quiet, but uow and then a sIdw footstep advanc- 
ing out of the darkness made her heart hap; and even when they 
had reached home, Lettie ran, with unnecessary haste, up the dim 
staircase, and was glad when bed-time came, and she could lay 
down her head and close her eyes. But atter all, it was quite un- 
satisfactory to close her eyes; and as the room was very dark, Lettie 
constantly opened them to cast anxious glances into the corners and 
listened vvitn all her might tor the rustling of the lady s silken, 
gown; but Lady Violet made no appearance to her little relative* 
except in dreams. 


CHAPTER XXX II. 

What strong hand can hold his swift foot back? 
v & Shakespeare. 

The window' is up in Martha’s room, and the sweet morning air 
comes in upon you, with afresh and pleasant abruptness, trank and 
simple as the sudden laughter of a child. The stir of early day is 
upon all the country without— birds twittering among the wet leaves, 
which themselves glisten and tremble in the sun. shaking off the 
rain which tell heavily through the night— and far-off footsteps and 
voices echoing over t tie fields, of rural people at their wholesome 
toil Beside the w'indow, a work-basket str. nils upon a little table, 
and vou will wonder when you see it full of the embroidered mus- 
lin— the delicate “ opening ” at which Martha and Rose were wont 
to labor. It is an elaborate collar which Martha holds in her hand, 
«nri slip is working at it with silent speed, as she used to do. You 
would taoev, to look at her now, that the family change ot fortune 

had brought little ease to her. . 

But upon a sofa, at a little dislance. Hose, with a fresh morning 
face and pretty muslin gown, is spreading out Harry s p.esent- 
the rich grave-colored silk, which has been made into a dress for 
.Martha’ °Aml Martha suffers herself to smi.e, and says its only 
fault is that it is loo good, and that the bairus will not know her 




HARRY MUIR. 


148 

when slie has it on. Katie Calder, at Rose’s side, draws out the 
folds reverentially, and says, with awe, under her breath, that it is 
“ nwfu’ bonnie:” but Violet sits on the carpet at Martha’s feet, and 
thinks about the lady at the well. 

For this is a holiday, and the children have no dread of school or 
lessons before their unembarrassed eyes. In the next room sits a 
Stirling dress-maker, who has condescended to come out to Allen- 
ders, to make up into gowns the glittering silks of Harry’s present; 
and Katie has already spent an hour iu the temporary work-room, 
appearing now and then, to report the shape of a sleeve, or to ex- 
hibit a specimen of some superlative “ trimming.” It is quite a 
jubilee to Katie. 

But Violet, in an oriental attitude, like a small sultana, sits on the 
carpet, and stoops both head and shoulders over the book on her 
knee; which Dook, for lack of a better, happens to be a quaiDt essay 
of Sir Thomas Browne’s. All the light literature contained in Ihe 
old Laird of A benders’ book shelves lias been devoured long ago, 
and Violet concluded “ Hydrotaphia ” to be better than sermons— a 
■conclusion which she is now slightly, inclined to doubt. But Lettie 
is a little dreamy and meditative this morning, and is thinking of 
Dragon’s story, and of Lady Violet's ballad; wondering, too, with 
secret excitement, whether she could make a ballad herself, and re- 
peating over and over again a single ecstatic verse about the moon, 
of her own composition, which Violet thinks, with a thrill, sounds 
■very like poetry. "When Martha stops to thread her needle, she la} r s 
her hand caressingly upon Lettie’s head, and bids her sit erect, and 
not stoop so much; and Lettie is almost encouraged to repeat this 
verse to her, and hear whether Martha thinks it is like poetry — al- 
most — but she never is quite sufficiently bold. 

The door opens with a little commotion, and Agnes, with care on 
her brow, comes hurriedly in. The room bus been so perfectly 
peaceful that you feel at once the disturt ing element, when the 
young wife enters, for Agnes is excited, impatient, perturbed. She 
lias just been having a controversy with Harry, and comes here, 
half crying, at its close. 

“ He says he’s going to Edinburgh to day with Gilbert Allenders; 
1 bate Gilbert Allenders,” said the little wife, in a sudden burst. 
‘‘ He is always leading Harry away. He is going to the races, and 
yet he says he doesn’t care a straw for the races. Oil 1 will you 
speak to him, Martha?” 

“ It is better not Agnes: lie will take his own way,” said Martha. 
‘‘ It is best I should not interfere.” 

‘‘He says we all lieaid Gilbert Allenders ask him, and that 1 
knew well enough be intended to go, and that you knew, Martha. 
1 told Harry 1 was sure you did not; and what pleasure will he have 
at the races?” 

“ 1 wish Gilbert Allenders were in America, or in China— or in 
London, if he likes it better.” said Rose quickly. 

“ That’s because he wants to fall in love with you,” said Agnes, 
with a light laugh, diverted for the moment by the fervor of Rise’s 
good wishes for the fascinating Gilbert: ‘‘but 1 am sure 1 would 
not care where he was, if he was only away from Harry; and Harry 
does not like him either. Rose, we’re to try to gather a big basket 


HARRY MUIR. 


149 


strawberries for Mrs. Charteris, and 1 think, maybe, Martha, 
:f Harry goes there , that he may get no scath in Edinburgh.” 

Rose came shyly to the table. “ If it had only been a week sooner! 
or if we had not pulled so many berries on Saturday!” 

“ We must take what we can get,” said Agnes; “ and the basket 
•as-standing below the walnut-tree. Will you not say anything to 
Harry, Martha?” / h 

1 will see him before he goes away,” said Marl ha laying down 
her work. 

And Violet sprung up and threw “ Hydrotaphia ” into the work- 
basket, and called upon Katie Caldei, who just then ran out of the 
work room with a little paper pattern in her hand, of a bonnet 
which she designed manufacturing for a great doll, joint property 
of herself and Lettie. Letiie, w T ith her books and her reveries, 
gave hut a very inconstant regard to this doll; it was often thrown 
for a week together upon the less capricious attention of Katie 
Calder. 

Harry was standing by the dining-room Window, with a sprig of 
jasmine in his breast, looking slightly ruffled and impatient, but 
still very bright and animated; and as Agnes passed -liiip, carrying 
the basket, he patted her shoulder playfully, and called lrer a good 
girl, after all. Poor little Agnes! she was not sure whether it was 
best to laugh or cry. 

‘‘So you are going, Harry?” Martha paused beside him, and 
leaned against the jasmine-covered wall. 

“ Yes, I am going. Why, Marl ha, I am not a child; why do' you 
constantly look st> wistful aud anxious? It’s enough to make a man 
stay away altogether,” said Hairy angrily. 

” Is it? A man, 1 suppose, must have very little inducement fo 
stay at home, when that is enough to send him away,” said Martha, 
coldly; “ but, Harry, vour friend Gilbert Allenders annoys Roae — 
could you not restrain him, if you bring him here again?” 

“ Is that all?” said Harry, laughing.^ ‘‘ Gibbie’s not such a bakf 
fellow, Martha; and the doctor will give him half of his practice, 
and lie’s sure to be steadier in a year or tw r o. Well, I should not 
like Rose to have anything to do with him, that is true; but still he 
may 'have his chance as well as auother. Have you anytUypg to say 
to Charteris, Martha?” 

“ Nothing; but you will go there?” said Martha, eagerly. 

‘‘ Oh! of course — the old lady would not be pleased; but then 1 
can’t take Allenders there— it it was only on account ot Rose;” and 
Harry laughed again. His impatience was wearing away. He was 
quite good-humored and light-hearted now. 

Meanwhile the iijiht glimmers through the trees upon Rose’s head, 
bending over the great basket, and upon the wet leaves, from which 
she shakes the last remaining rain-drops, as she places them under 
the fragrant fruit; aud it is siugular now, when the basket is full, 
to observe how careful she is in choosing those leaves, and how she 
scatters little bits of oak, tender brown aud green, and spreads cool 
twigs of plane tree over the strawberries, and sends Violet away 
stealthily to gatner white jasmine blossoms, and strew them on the 
fruit. Violet, nothing loath, twists a long bough of jasmine round 
Rose’s dark hair, and Katie suggests cabbage- leaves to cover up the 


150 


HARRY MUfR. 


basket; which suggestion, prosaic as it is, has to be carried out, and 
so the basket is borne away. 

The (lay after to-moirow Harry promises to return, and they 
watch him go away with doubt and pain; but he himself is very 
cheerful, and speaks so confidently ot what “ 1 ” will do, and evi- 
dent l\ r feels himself so dignified and independent a man, that they^ 
are comforted. “ Everybody else in Harry’s station does the same 
thing,” says Agnes, a little proudly, and Martha assents with an 
averted face, and tliej r separate in silence— the one to occupy herself 
pleasantly with little domestic cares, the other to take up her work 
again, and sit at her open window, and pray in her heart. 

But Rose has wandered to the mall, and sits under the oak-tree, 
which rounds its termination They have made a little seat there 
under the thick foliage, where there is always shade; and Ro r e, not 
without a compuuction about the work which she should be doing,, 
either to help Martha or the dress-maker, resigns herself to a dream. 
The water at her side glides on. She can see it floating past lier, 
through the loving leaves which droop over it, and dip into its daz- 
zling tide; and at her other hand, the spear head glitters on the 
turret, and a glistening lime-tree throws its wet boughs abroad, and 
shakes them in the face of the brave sun. Then there are rays of 
sober daylight stealing with sidelong quietness through the beeches 
further down, and Violet and Katie send pleasant articulate voices, 
into the universal rustle, which the soft air waving about every- 
where calls forth from the water and the trees. 

Behind her is a corn-field, the greatest rustler of all; and Iiose 
hears a heavy foot wading through the scanty grain, chance-sown 
under the hedge. But just then, the children with their untailing 
attendant. Dragon, have come close upon Rose on the other side of 
the oak, but do not see her, though she hears all they say. 

There is a pause ot perfect stillness for a moment, and Violet 
sighs. 

“ Eh, Dragon!” said Lettie, “ I wouldna like to be here in tlie 
dark.” 

“ You dinna keen bow bonnie it is in the dark, missie,” said the 
old man, “ ’specially when there’s stars shining, that ye canna tell 
whether they’re in the water or the sky; and there was ance a fairy 
ring someghte about the steps yonder, and I’ve beard mony a ane 
say they had listened lang syne to sair groans out of that oak They 
say ane o’ the lairds that planted it came by a violent death, and 
ye can aye hear’t make a moan and complaint, at the season of the 
year when he was killed; but 1 canna answer for that story— and I 
never heard the tree say a word mair than ony ithcr tree, a’ my 
days.” 

“ But listen, Dragon,” said Lettie, covering her eyes; ‘ if it was 
dark, f could think it was the rustling of Lady Violet’s gown.” 

“ And it’s naething but the corn,” said Dragon, with a feeble 
laugh; “ naething but the wind in the corn, and your ain fancy. 
Ay, but there is anither sound. What would ye say if it was Mailie 
in among Willie Hunter’s corn?” 

“ 1 would get a wand, and drive her out again. 1 would like. 
Dragon — is it her that's in the corn?” cried Katie Caller. 

But Dragon looking over the hedge already bore testimony that it 


HARRY MUIR. 


151 


Was not the brown cow, hut greeting with great surprise his nephew 
Ge "Twas iust coming in bye to say a word to Mysie,” said the 

Aml^KaUe' ra^a^^^Uirough^tbe ^rees, without waiting for per- 
eomel 

r:.w - 5HS srsi- « 

^.“wM hasa writer married on 

his ae sister, and sic a wise lady for his ltuer. 

Poor Rose started -but, to do ber justice, quite* a i much 1 because 

dr ?.T?; Irlle he's gann to take Aliender Mains into his » in >>“ ds j 
• ,?/ ?? “ * Uipnr the land’s to bear threple crops when the 

■said Geordie 1 hear tne ia mielit it it was weel 

ESt :zTZ e r^ 

S“7o h ^ThTn"ntof Is sure to hand at it. « he begins wt‘ 
th ‘‘ M™ ? he delved and dibbled in tire garden ae night tor a hail! 

lromV Mdaimed the applauding Uragon. that>g # good sign . 

Geordie shook llla ll ™ d m; 1 | j ke9 siller. 1 would like to ken it 
And then, ye see, the farming naetliing but a puir 

it's true what tyey say unci .that dto lad ^w* , naer * h(J 

lad afore he wan to Wilder.; but U he Msna s ^ ^ 

maun'ayete'liliedfand that ane get? aue’s bread whaever's mas- 
ter. But here’s Mysm. Guid ‘lay o ye, kail.” said Dragon. 
.. uneven the sun. Ye should gang to Mysie, and 

•*,sni» »». - »^5ss “« 

gloom and discouragement upon her face hettie. 


HARRY MUIR. 


152 

ders no a grand fortune when Harry got it? and what way is it no 
a grand fortune now?” 

"“I can not tell, Lettie,” said Rose, sadly. “ Come away, and 
we’ll go in. and you’ll read a book to Martha and me.” 

Lettie put her hand into her sister’s quietly, ana they went in 
together. Martha was still at her windovv— still working with her 
old silent assiduity — and Rose drew a chair to the opposite side of 
the little table, and greatly subuded and sobered, took up out of 
Martha’s basket a piece of embroidery, and began to “ open ” it a3 
busily as of yore. This work was still regularly supplied to Martha 
by Uncle Sandy in Ayr. It was a satisfaction to her to pursue 
those unknown labors day by daj r ; and Rose, too, began with a 
kind of desperate energy — as if such a pittance as she could earn 
could have auy effect upon the fortunes of Harry; but sti.ll it was a 
satisfaction to do what she could. 

Katie Calder came in from the garden, flushed and merry, and 
could not comprehend the quietness which had fallen upon Rose 
and her little playfellow, though Lettie’s changing moods ceased 
to surprise her constant companion; so Katie resumed her pilgrim- 
ages between Martha’s room, and the dress maker’s, and began her 
doll’s bonnet with great success and eclat; while Violet again seated 
on the carpet, solemnly commenced to read “ Hydrotaphia ” to her 
quite uninterested auditors; but finding this would not do, sudden- 
ly threw it down, and began to tell them Dragon’s story. 

The sisters listened who quiet pleasure; they did not always un- 
derstand Lettie, in her reveries and drearnings, and she was nat- 
urally shy of speech; but Martha had already been startled on more 
than one occasion by the strange intuitive perceptions of her 
youngest “bairn,” and she said with an atfectionate smile when 
the story ended, “ You will be like Lady Violet, Lettie — you will 
make ballads too.” 

A burning flush crossed the child’s face, and she did not speak 
tor some time. Then she looked up to^say: “ Dragon says Harry's 
no a canny name for the Lands of Allenders, and there never has 
been one, Martha, irom Lady Violet’s time til i now.” 

A cloud passed over Martha's face— a very slight fantastic thing 
was enough at this time to leave a permanent shadow. 

And it was a week before Harry returned; and he came back 
sullen, gloomy, and exhausted, w T ith nothing to tell them, as he said 
— nor had he seen Charteris except once, and that on the first day 
he spent in Edinburgh. Poor Harry! he had not jmt expended a 
farthing on his farming operations, and lie dared not think how 
little remained of Miss Jean’s thousand pounds. 


CHAPTER XXX111. 

The wind blows east, the wind blows west, 

And then comes both sun and rain. 

Carlyle. 

The autumn passed with many ordinary vicissitudes, with times 
of peacefulness, and times of trouble; and in the house of Allen- 
ders another baby son w r as born. It was just when Harry was be- 


HARRY MUIR. 


153 


ginning the business of his farm, and after a time of great abstrac- 
tion and excitement,' during which he had visited Edinburgh once 
or twice, and was evidently occupied with some business which he 
could not confide to any one at home. But Harry’s mind had been 
lightened before his baby came; the farm-manager lie d arrived; 
Geordie, the nephew of the feeble Dragon, had spoken his tniud to 
AUenders about the new harrow and th plow-graitli, and had been 
graciously heard — so graciously, that Geordie immediately decided 
on an affirmative answer to the question which agitated the whole 
population of Maidlin Cross, and ever atter maintained that “ the 
lain! had siller o’ his ain, bye the lands, and that he was just living 
free and open-handed, as a gentleman should live.” It was one of 
Harry’s sunshine times; and many a heart wished kindly wishes 
for him, as he stood in Maidlin Church, his young wife in her 
graceful weakness, and bis sisters st ab d by his side, and held up 
his child to receive the baptismal sprinkling, and to be named with 
the name of the Lord. ‘‘He has the kin. lliest dace 1 ever saw — 
ane’s heart warms to the lad — blessings on him,” said an old wom- 
an on the pulpit stairs; and Martha’s heart swelled with the echoed 
blessing. 

And there were blessings on him — blessings which many a deso- 
late heart sighed and pined lor in vain — blessings of raie love and 
tendeiness, of children fair and hopeful, and in his own person of 
a competent mind, and of the bright health and youth to which 
everything was possible. So tar as his starting point was con- 
cerned, a wonderful realization had come to Martha’s ambitious 
hopes for him; and now it almost seemed to lie with Hairy himself 
to decide what the end of them should be. 

In the farm-house of Alleniler Mains, Harry’s farm-manngei has 
already established himself, and from the midst ot its bare trees 
you see appearing the lialf-huilt chimney of the new threshing ■ 
mill, the machinery tor winch has just arrived under charge of two 
young eng neers from Glasgow; and the slope of the farm-garden, 
and all the barn yard behind, is lined with great draining pipes, 
glancing red through the hoar-frost at a mile or t wo’s distance, 
upou their slight elevation. And just behind the little byre and 
stable of AUenders’ house, a great range ot Dew stables and byres 
aie rising, to receive the cattle, which Harry .ms resolved shall be 
unequaled in the country-side. When the weather is “ fresh,” you 
can not pass a field without seeing the heavy breath of the plow- 
horses, rising like a mist over the hedge, and hearing the meditative 
whistle, or uncouth cal! of the plowman behind. An air of sudden 
activity spreads over the little district — so decided and apparent, 
indeed, that a retired weaver in Stirling has already two new houses 
in progress one ot which is a little shop, in the very front ot Maidlin 
Cross. The event excited the hamlet to a positive upioar, for 
never before had any man dreamed of dignifying Maidlin with 
such a two stoned slated house as slowly grew upon its astonished 
vision now. 

And in the dust of the winter mornings you see the lanes full of 
hardy brown children, girded with rough sackcloth aprons — bound 
dor school, you would fancy. No, they are bound for Harry’s 
ffields, to “ gather stanes,” and have each a little “ wage,” to carry 


154 : 


HAR11Y MUIR. 


home on Saturday night to the immense delight of mother and 
child. The fathers are laying drains and plowing, tlie elder sisters 
tend the fine cows in the byre at Allender Mains, and prosperity to 
which they are altogether unaccustomed tails suddenly upon the 
startled inhabitants of Maidliu Cros^. 

And landlords and farmers, starlit d too, are looking more scrupu- 
lously to themselves, lest they be outdone by the uew coiner; the 
blood stirs in the awakened veins of the country-side, and some- 
thing of emulation, keener than tliekeeuest air of December, strikes 
inio t tie warm fireside coiner, where honest men can no longer take 
in peace their afternoon’s glass of toddy, and its accompanying 
newspaper, the constant reports of what is doing at Allendcrs, and 
what Alienders himself is doing — for Harry’s adive footstep rings 
along the frost bound paths and Harry’s frank salutations scatter 
good-will among his husbandmen every day; and steady-going 
agricultural people waken up, and look after their own omissions 
and neglects, with a half grudge at Allenders. 

It seems that Harry has found at last the life suitable for him. 
Though the snow lies heavy on the sullen brow of Deme} T et, and 
every blade of glass on the lawn is crisped into distinct identity,, 
and the burn is frost bound under the trees, and an icy hand re- 
strains the tinkling springiet of the Lady’s Well, Harry never fails 
to visit his fields. 

“ The best compost for the lands 
Is the masters feet and hands.” 

He says with a laugh, as he wraps his plaid about him, and sets out 
in the face of the keenest winds that weeps out of the highlands; 
and Agnes, with the new baby on her arm, sits by the fireside 
with radiant smiles, and Martha looks after him from the window, 
where now the jasmine clings in long brown fibers to ihe wall, 
without a single adorning leaf, and in her heart tries to forget all 
the dread and all the bitter thoughts which mingled in the sum- 
mer time with the sickly odor of those jasmine flowers. 

Yet sometimes Harry is abstracted and full of care. They be- 
lieve that he is thinking then of errors which they believe are now 
happily past forever; for no one in the house but Martha ever re- 
members that all these improvements must cost more than Miss 
Jean’s thousand pounds — and Martha finds all her attempts at in- 
quiry evaded. She never can succeed in learning where Harry gets 
the means of accomplishing so much, and it is only now and then,, 
when an incautious murmur about interest or legal charges reaches 
her, that she has ground tor her conjecture that he has borrowed 
from olhers besides Miss Jean. But Martha believes with trem- 
bling that Harry’s mind is changed — that his purposes are no longer 
fluctuating and unsteady— that he has reached at last the great 
strength and motive power of the Christian life; and she can trust 
all lesser things to the regulation of that which is above all. 

And they never say poor Harry— never except when they are 
commenting with full hearts and eyes upon some new proof of Har- 
ry’s kindness— and then it is said in applauding, grateful love, and 
not in pity, hio longer poor Harry- -tor is lie not a great landed 
proprietor, making such a stir in his district as no Allenders has 


HARRY MUIR. 


155 

flone before him for a hundred years? and has not Sir John Dunlop 
invited Allenders of Allenders to dine with him on Christ mas-day? 

They are very glad it is Christmas-day and not the new year— t be 
Scottish family holy-tide — and Harry comes home greatly elated 
Iroin Sir John Dunlop’s, where they have treated him with the 
greatest distinction,^ like a guest of special honor. Lady Dunlop, 
too, promises to eali on Mrs. Allenders, and Agnes blushes for pleas- 
ure, and is fluttered and excited, and sings to the baby such a song 
of triumph, that instead of being lulled to sleep as she intends, he 
opens his blue eyes wide, and seizing on the lace about her pretty 
neck, tears it with exultation and delight. Bappj r baby! young 
enough to do mischief with impunity! Little Harry, now two full 
years old, who does uot at all admire this supplanting baby, and is 
still sore about his own dethronement, clinches his fist at him in 
auger and envy, and is the only person m the fireside circle who 
has sympathy with Agnesis tribulation about her perished lace. 

Next week Cuthbert Charteris is coming for a single day to pay 
them a visit, for Cuthbert is very busy now, laying the foundation 
of a great business ; and in honor of Cuthbert there is to be a pat ty — 
the fiist which they have attempted — when the covers are to be taken 
ofl the drawing-room chairs, and Agms and Rose are to appear in 
full costume. Youthful and inexperienced as they all are, this is a 
great event to them, and Agnes innocently reports to Harry vaiious 
elegancies which she would like to nave lor bet table and her pretty 
drawing-room before the notable day; and Harry lays before them 
a plan of Miss Dunlop’s for a conservatory, which she herself has 
strongly recommended to him. Harry thinks he will set about it 
immediately, and it will not cost much, and Agnes and Rose are 
delighted and can not sufficiently admire the artistic talent of Miss 
Dunlop. 

But to morrow Harry has to pay fifty laborers— to morrow a quar- 
ter’s salary falls due to the farm-manager— to-morrow he has prom- 
ised to pay for some fine Ayrshire cows, now luxuriating in the byre 
at Alleuder Mains— and to-morrow, alas! there are two separate divi- 
dends of interest, which can not be postponed— Miss Jean’s, and a 
heavier creditor than Miss Jean. 

So Harry retires to his library when tlie} r have left him, and 
chafes himself a little over ine trouble of so many complicated con- 
cerns, and feels a momentary shiver pass over him, as he wonders 
how he will do when the great sum he lately lodged in his bank at 
{Stirling shall be exhausted -what, then, Harry? with more than 
three hundred of interest to pay and only four hundred and filly 
pounds? And Harry’s brow contracts for a momeut, and a shadow 
steals over his face; but immediately it brightens. “ Why, by that 
time, to be sure, the farm will have doubled its value, and 1 shall 
be a rich man/’ he repeats half aloud, with a short laugh of satisfac- 
tion, and sroing to liis writing-table, he puts down, in permanent 
“black and white,’’ a list of the pretty things in silver-work and 
upholstery which lie has promised to order before Agnes’s party, 
and throwing himself into an easy-chair, reads a novel for an hour 
with the lightest heart in the world. 

While Agnes visits, little Harry in his crib to kiss him as he 
-sleeps, and folds the new-come brotfier into her own bosom, and lies 


156 


HARRY MUIR. 


dowri to lier happy rest; and Rose, between sleeping and wakingy 
dreams, with a heart full of sweet anticipations; and Martha in the 
darkness looks out upon the falling snow, and on the pallid nioon 
lightening Demeyet, and bids the stern voice of her expe' ience be 
still, and let her hope— Hope! she holds it to her heart with a 
desperate clutch, as a drowning mother holds her child, and is 
still, wailing lor the will of God. 

Ret a sound breaks the piofound slumber of Maldlin Cross, 
where Harry’s laborers, fiee of all care for the morro tv, lie silent 
in the deep sleep which compensates their toil. Nut a sound dis- 
turbs the quietness of AUenders, except that small voice of Violet 
asking in the darkness if Katie is asleep Yes, Katie is asleep: 
shut your dark eyes, Lettie, and say your prayers, that Lady Vi«det 
may not come in her glistening garments to sit yonder in the daili- 
es! corner, and hold you with her glittering eye; but except for 
this visionary dread, and the one ache pf ancient fear in Martha’s 
graver breast— fear which only dwells far down in the depths, like 
an echo in a well — this hour of rest sheds nothing but peace upon 
the home of Harry Muir. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

The Count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well; but civil, Count— civil 
as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion .— Much Ado About 
Nothing. 

On the eve of the important party, Cuthbert Charteris arrived at 
AUenders. 

Half-frozen with his journey, and shaking from his coat large 
flakes of snow, which tremble d in the air, they took him int the 
dining-room, where a blazing fire, a late dinner, and the warm and 
smiling welcome of Agues gieatly solaced the wayfarer. Harry 
had met him in Stirling, and driven him out; but Harry’s carriage, 
though it could be closed, was not so comfortable on a December 
night as in the bright sunshine of a July day. Cuthlurt made 
hurried inquiries after Martha and Rose, in answer to which Agnes 
began a most animated account of an unexpected call from “ young 
Mr Dunlop” to say that his sister would be very happy to come 
with him to Agnes’s party. Little Mrs Muir Allenders had only 
ventured at the last moment to invite the baronet’s daughter; and 
then with but the faintest expectation that Miss Dunlop would 
come. Atitms was greatly elated; and Rose and Martha were with 
Mr. Dunlop in the drawing r^om. 

But on the peaceful countenance of Cuthbert Charteris there 
passed a momentary savageness. At t his moment it seemed to him, 
in unconscious self-estimation, that he, as the newly ariived guest 
and tried friend, should be the principal person at Al lenders — 
whereas this young Mr. Dunlop, most probably a nobody, as Cuth- 
bert concluded with amiable liberality, defrauded him of his wel- 
come from the sisters, and drew away Harry irom his side. It was 
true that Harry returned in ten minutes, and that Martha and Ag- 
nes changed places; but still Cuthbert involuntarily frowned. Might 
not Rose, in common courtesy, have come to greet him? Alas,. 


HARRY MUIR. 


15 ? 


poor Rose! for Cuthbert could not tell how she trembled at tli& 
bright titeside of the drawing room, nor how the astonished Ague& 
threw shawls round her shoulders, and wondered what could make 
her so cold. 

Mr. Chatteris lingered Jong over his dinner. Cuthbert, to tell the 
truth, was rather sullen, and made by no means a brilliant appear- 
ance to Martha and Harry, who sat with him while he refreshed 
himself. He had a great inclination, indeed, to wrap himself, up 
again in his traveling dress, say a surly good bye at the drawing- 
room door, andrbttake himself home without delay; but Cuthbert 
disconsolately comforted himself, that it was only for one day, and 
sat with all his attention concentrated on the sounds from the stair- 
case, doggedly assuring himself that no one would come. And no 
one did come; and Cuthbert was enraged at the fulfillment of his 
own prophecy. 

By and by he went upstairs, attended by Harry, who did not 
quite comprehend this singular mood, to his own room, and Rose 
heard his voice on the stair, and trembled still more and more, 
though young Mr. Dunlop sat by, and did all that in him lay to en- 
gage her attention. But poor Rose felt a great inclination to steal 
away to her own room and cry; for she in her turn, thought it 
strange, very strange, that Cuthbert should linger so long, and show 
so little wish to see her. 

And when Cuthbert, his face still tingling from the cold blast 
without, entered the warm and cheerful drawing-room, and saw 
young Mr. Dunlop silting beside the silent Rose, describing to her 
with animation some storied continental towns from which lie had 
lately returned, the grave advocate felt himself yield to boyish pique- 
and jealous resentment — “ Civil as an orange, and something of 
that jealous complexion,” the tone of liis constrained greeting dis- 
mayed Rose, and when he had taken her hand in his own somewhat 
chill one, aod let it tall agaiu with scarcely a pressure, he withdrew 
to the other side oi the room and began to talk to Martha. Rose, 
who had not been a very good listener before, became worse than, 
ever now— but Mr. Charteris, trying to look very indifferent, occu- 
pied himself almost ostentatiously with Martha, and laughed at his- 
own jokes, and bee* me quite exuberant and demonstrative, though 
he never spoke to Rose. 

But Rose would not tell her sister, when she unexpectedly brought 
a light, to their dark room that night, why she was crying; it was 
for nothing at all, Rose protested— indeed nothing at all— but faster 
and faster the tears ian down her cheek, and she had much to do to 
keep back a rising sob. Martha put her hand over the wet eyes 
tenderly, and did "not ask again — for she could guess, without ex- 
planation, the cause of Rose's tears. 

Next day Mi. Charteris rode out with Harry to see the improve- 
ments. He was much interested in them, he said, and so he wa& 
—far more interested than he felt yesterday when he came. 

Cuthbert had been having a consultation with himself during the' 
night — a consultation in which he looked at various circumstances 
from a point of view exactly opposite to that of Rose. He saw 
•• young Mr. Dunlop,” son ot the rich Sir John, a wealthier matt 
than he could ever be, devoting himself to her unequivocally, as 


HARRY MUIR. 


158 

Cuthbert thought— and Cuthbert in liis heart devoutly believed that 
Bose’s gentle excellence needed only to be seen to win all love and 
lionor. So he gravely asked himself whether it would be right for 
him, even it it were in his power, to stand in the way, and endeavor 
lo secure for himself, who must struggle tor years in the uphill road 
to success, one who would do honor to this higher rank which 
seemed about to be laid at her teet. And Cuthbert, with the self- 
deuial of a man who magnanimously gives up what he sees no hope 
of ever attaining, said to himself: .No — no — his affection, strong 
and powerful as it was, should never stand in Rose’s way. 

And this was no small trial to Cuthbert. He had come here pre- 
pared to say certain things which would have made one h< art in 
A1 lenders leap. He had even gone so far as to confide his inten- 
tion to his mother, and it wan somewhat hard now to give it up, 
and go steadily back to his books and his struggles, relinquishing 
foiever the fairy solace of these disappointed hopes. It w.ts hard 
— was it right? Cuthbert persuaded himself so, as he rode silently 
along those wintery lanes, where the snow lay thick under the hedges, 
and whitened every spray; hut Cuthbert did not know how great a 
share in it belonged to the pride which lay at the bottom of his heart. 

When he returned to Allenders, Rose was busy with Agnes in 
preparation for the party. He did not see her, and this brought 
confirmation to his previous thoughts. Then came the party itself, 
an ordinary .collection of well-looking, well-dressed people, among 
whom Cuthbert, with his preoccupied thoughts, found very little 
to interest him. Miss Dunlop, it is true, a wed bred, trained, mat- 
ure young lady, acquainted with the world, made herself very polite 
and agreeable, and evidently regarded Cuthbert as one of tie most 
tolerable persons present; but then Mr. Dunlop was at Rose’s side 
again, and Rose looked shy and pale, and embarrassed, shrinking 
from the glance and touch of her new attendant as an indifferent 
person never could do. Cuthbert turned away with a great sigh 
when he perceived her face flush and grow pale, her hand tremble, 
lier eyes cast down. He thought it was the stranger beside her, 
whose presence called forth these unwilling evidences of maidenly 
tremor and confusion; and lie turned away, feeling as if some 
burning hand had clutched at his heart. 

But Cuthbert could not see the wistful glances, which, when he 
painfully averted lus eyes, dwelt upon him with inquiring sadness; 
and when he looked again, Rose vvas sitting, silent as before, with 
sudden flushes on her tace, and sudden tremors in her frame, answer- 
ing, it is true, with few words and a little melancholy smile, when 
any one addressed her, but entirely failing to rrake the impression 
which Harry had predicted for her pink silk gown. And there 
was Mr. Dunlap paying his devoirs gallantly; those easy assiduities 
of word and manner! Cuthbert felt the strong love sicken his own 
lieart, as he said to himself that these had charmed the trustful 
.spirit of his Lady Rose. 

And Mr. Dunlop, observing the changes of her face, at first willi 
a little amusement, very soon came to the same conclusion too, and 
was embarrassed and annoyed, gratified and proud. For nothing 
was further from the thoughts of the baronet’s son, for whom the 
maguanimous Cuthbert was willing to sacrifice liimself, than any 


HARRY MUIR. 


159 

particular admiration of Hose, or the faintest iutention of offering 
himself to the sister of Harry Muir. But the voung nlan was 
human, and not insensible to ladies’ love. He thought, like Cutli- 
bert, that his attractions had overpowered Rose, and his tone in- 
sensiby grew tender, and his attentions marked, till Rose, able to 
bear it no longer, stole away. 

“ Poor Rose A1 lenders,” said Miss Dunlop to Cuthbert, as Rose 
left the room. “ She seems to think John is in love witn her; she 
is a very nice little girl, 1 think, but some young ladies are so 
ridiculous, taking every little attention so seriously, and 1 really 
must speak to John.” 

But Cuthbert, it she knew it, could have thrown John out of the 
window with far greater pleasure than he handed John’s sister to 
the new piano; and immediately alter he sat down tor a full hour 
to watch the door, with so much tenderness and solicitude in his 
face, that Rose, when Rhe stole in again, brightened as wi h a sud- 
den sunshine. And Cuthbert’s heart lightened a little too; but still 
it was lull of distrust and doubt, and he never drew near her to 
speak the words, or hear the response, whicn might have set this 
doubt at rest. 

The night was over, and nothing but the most ordinary civilities 
had passed between them; next morning he was to go awry. He 
stood on the threshold in his rough traveling coat and plaid, saying 
“ Good-bye,” with a voice which slightly faltered. He had shaken 
hands with Rose in the dining room, where they breakfasted, and 
now ire thought he was taking farewell of A lk riders.. But as he 
looked back between Martha aud Agnes, who had come W'itli him to 
the door, Cuthbert saw a shy lingering figure in the door- way of the 
room he had left. His heart warmed; he stepped back to take 
Rose’s hand again, and press it kindly in anothei farewell. They 
said nothing except “Goodbye;” but Cuthbert caught one timid 
upward glance, and Rose saw the full sready look which conveyed 
toiler so much of what the heart meant to say. The cloud rose 
from her heart and floated away; in another moment Cuthbert was 
gone, and sue sal down to her work in intense silence, eager to re- 
sume her dreams; but Cuthbert rolled away on the frosty road,, 
and looked buck on Allenders, with a sadness at his heart. 

He had hitherto unconsciously assumed to himself the right of 
assistance and succoi if any emergency should come. Now lie felt 
this gliding away from him — now he could no longer dream of 
carrying this Rose in his arms to the sate place where rains of ad- 
versity might beat upon its gentle heart no more. The futuie, of 
which he had speculated so much, grew misty and uncertain to 
Cuthbert. The little cloud of breath before him, hovering in the- 
frosty air, rose up like a white mist upon distant Benledi, and ob- 
scured him, though he looked out from among the clouds; and so, 
over many a great event and many a weighty hour, this tittle pres- 
ent mist rose dim and disheartening, and Cuthbert could not look 
beyond it — could not in his blended pride and eagerness, and anx- 
iety, distinguish the simpie truth under this momentary veil. 

But Harry, by his side, spoke ot his projects, and Cuthbert 
seemed to listen, and gave answers not so tar astray, though Cuth- 
bert’s thoughts were little employed about Harry’s improvements^. 


160 


HARRY MUIR. 


and it cost him an effort to keep up his attention. They parted 
very cordially, however, and Harry urged upon his friend repeated 
invitations to return, which Cuthbert was tain to evade. He re- 
membered Rose’s parting glance, and could not prevail upon him- 
self to resign tne chance of going back; but again he thought of the 
previous day, the previous uight, and sighed to himself heavily as 
he turned his face toward home. He thought he had looked his last 
upon Rose. 

When Harry left Cuthbert, he weDt to his bankers and drew a 
very considerable sum from his “ capital; 7 ’ Put Harry felt he had 
been very economical lately, and could afford a little indulgence 
now; so he ordered some pretty hits of jewelry which he had fancied 
Agnes wanted last night, and called on Gilbert A Menders and some 
other choice spirits, and dined with them at the principal inn, and 
spent the evening merrily; nor was it until John had made repeat- 
ed reoresentations of the daiknei-s of the night, and the necessity for 
getting lion e, that Harry suffered himself to be persuaded, and bade 
a reluctant good-mghl to his friends. 

Charteris was bending over a mass of papers, schooling the heart 
■which still throbbed so loudly, and weuryiug himself out with in- 
different business, that his disappointment might not sit too near 
the source of his strength, when Harry, wearied by quite a different 
process, drove past the dark and silent houses at Maidlin Cross. 
The laborers there were lying down 10 the untroubled slumber pur- 
chased by a toilsome day; and the children were asleep in Allencleis, 
and Martha \vas standing by the win:low of her own room, looking 
out into a darkness so profound, that it made her blind, and feeling 
a darkness profounder still within the heart, which she coerced 
into absolute silence; when, drowsy and wearied out, dazzled with 
the lights, and annoyed by the quietness, Harry came home. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

He will hang upon him like a disease. 

Much Ado About Nothing. 

“I’ve a great mind to practice out here, Harry,” said Gilbert 
Allenders; “ lots of scarlet-fever, and measles, and whooping-cough, 
to start a man. And I want to be decent and rtspeetable and get, 
out ot temptation. If you were ixi an interesting position, like me. 
I’d get you a couple ot rooms at Alleuder Mains, and invite you to 
dinner every day, till you were set up. Interesting children of 
Maidlin, you don’t know how much you want a doctor!” 

“ And would you actually come out here in winter, Gilbert?” 
said Harry. “ You don’t know how dull it is sometimes.” 

Harry drew his hat over his eyes, and returned very gruffly the 
passing salutation of Geordie Paxton. It was now a week since he 
had visited his delds, and that was more than time to make Harry 
sick— as he said— of the whole concern. 

“ The duties of my profession, sir,” said Gilbert, solemnly: “ a 
medical man is always a martyr to the public and his duty— al wavs. 
By the way, Harry, what would you say to take a run up to towii 



HARRY MUIR. 


161 


I think it would do 


for a week or two, just before settling down? 
me good.” 

And Mr. Gilbert, laid his hand on his heart, and sighed, as if he 
were the most interesting invalid in the world. 

“ To town? Do you mean to Stirling? I am there often enough 
already,” said Harry. 

“ Stirling!” Mr. Gilbert put up his hand to arrange the great 
woolen cravat he wore and laughed hoarsely. “ You don’t fancy 
1 cal) that little hole of a place, town! How innocent you are, after 
all!” 

‘Am 1?” Harry felt himself grow very angry, and kicking 
away a stone which happened to lie beside his foot, sent it spinning 
through a group of Maidlin boys, dispersing themselves and their 
“ bools ” in all directions. It it had only broken Gilbert Allender s 
shins instead, it would have phased Harry better; but even this 
was a satisfaction. 

“ Very well aimed,” said Gilbert, approvingly. ** What L mean 
is, London— town— there is but one ‘ town’ in the world. Ccme 
up with me, Harry, and I’ll help you to enjoy yourself. Come.” 

“ Help me to enjoy myself, will you?” said Harry, scornfully. 
Hairy was more impatient of his companion to-day, than he had 
been for a long time. 

“ Come, come, we’re old companions now,” said Gilbert; “ and 
I know you wouldn’t dislike going to London* a man of your 
years and station, who has never been in London, is something 
quite unparalleled! The country should subscribe for a glass-case, 
and show you in it as a real old country-gentleman, who has never 
been in town alt his life, and never means to go!” 

“ There is such a thing as going too far,” said Harry, haughtily. 

“ Who was it said that, the first night 1 saw you—” said the 
malicious Gilbert; ‘‘don’t you remember? But 1 won’t aggravate 
you, Harry; and you needn’t look as if ycu could eal me. Come, 

will you go?” . _,, . 

“ 1 fion’t care for seeing London, vvliat is it to me? said 
Harry, with dignity: “just half a dozen big towns compounded 
nto one' What should send everybody to London? At ihe same 
itime perhaps I may go: it’s just as well going there, as staying at 
home here, doing nothing. And there is really nothing to be done 
on the land just now, in such a frost.” 

“ You have been quite a hero, Harry! said Gilbert: few men, 
1 can tell you, could' have done what you have done. You ought 
to give yourself a little rest. Such a thing as this, now,” said Gil- 
bert pointing to a line of carts slowly proceeding, with much ring- 
ing of horses" hoots and carters’ clogs, along the frosty, whitened 
road “ just to stand and let those odorous carts pass by might upset 
a ma n of your organization: yet you’ve been among them constant- 
ly for some two months, now. 1 envy you your force of resolu- 

tl0 poo? Harry! this piece of flattery mollified his irritated temper, 
more easily than anything else could have done. Halt conscious 
that he had already abandoned this last and most costly toy of his, 
it salved his conscience to have his perseverance wondered at. He 
put his arm in Gilbert’s, with sudden friendliness. 

V 6 


HARRY MUIR. 


162 

“ I think 1 shall go, alter all,” he said. “ Armstrong can man- 
age everything well enough. He has been accustomed to this sort 
ol thing all his life; and, to tell the truth, it requires that, I am 
afraid, to make a farmer— that is to say, your thorough enthusiastic 
tanner. But now that January is over, 1 think a few weeks’ 
change would quite set me up again: besides, spring always recon- 
ciles one to the country. So 1 fancy we may settle upon going, 
Gilbert. When shall you be ready.” 

“ In a day— any time,” said Mr. Gilbert, shaking the thin, pow- 
dery snow from the hedge, by a blow of his cane. ” I haven’t three 
ladfes to look after me, as you have: the girls have t'leir own affairs 
to mind, and so has the mamma. 1 get my wardrobe to superin- 
tend myself — different from you, Harry.” 

And not quite sure whether to be pleased, and accept this as a 
token of his superior importance, or to resent it as a check upon his 
manliness and independence, Harry began immediately to discuss 
the projected journey— how they should go, and when; and it was 
soon decided, very much more to Gilbert’s satisfaction, than to the 
good pleasure of Agnes and Martha, at home. 

For Agnes found out many little objections, and urged them with 
some pique and displeasure. Agnes thought she herself, his wife, 
would have been a much more suitab’e companion for Harry than 
Gilbert Allenders; and she should have greatly liked to go to Lon- 
don, even at risk of leaving the baby. Martha said nothing; her 
hope was gliding out of her hands again, defying all her eager at- 
tempts to hold it: and steady darkness— darkness as ot the Egypt- 
ian night, tangible and positive, was settling down upon Martha’s 
heart. 

“ So you have had our Edinburgh friend here again, Miss Rose?” 
said Mr. Gilbert. ” I suppose he will condescend to be civil to you. 
What is the man, Harry? Nothing but a Scotch W. S., I suppose?” 

“ He is an advocate, and a gentleman,” said Rose, under her 
breath; and when she had said this, she turned to the window, 
fearful ol disclosing the vivid blush which covered her whole face. 

“ When 1 called on him with Harry in July— I would not say, in 
presence of ladies, what my impulse was,” said Gilbert, lifting his 
large bony hand, and displaying his ringed finger in relief against 
the black brushwood about his chin. “ He looked at me with a 
malice which disgusted me. 1 suppose he thought 1 was in his 
way,” added Mr. Gilbert, complacently, bestowing upon Rose, who 
had just turned hei head, roused and defiant, a most emphatie look 
ot admiration. 

And Harry laughed: Rose turned her eyes to him slowly, and felt 
her hear! burn — that Harry should thick so meanly of her as to 
fancy Gilbert Allenders could stand in Cuthbert’s way! 

** But when Mr. Charteris looks at you, Rosie,” whispered Vio- 
let, “ his lips aye moves, and the lid comes over his eye. Lasr time, 
he looked as it lie could greet: what was that for, Rose?” 

But Rose made no reply. 

There were, as Gilbert prophesied, great preparations in Allen- 
ders for Harry’s departure, and various purclia-cs made, that Harry’s 
appearance away from home might be worthy the station which his 
little wife thought so exalted. None of them were quite prepared for 


HARRY MUIR. 


1G3 


the total insignificance which always falls upon a solitary visitor to 
London; and when Gilbeit, patting up his own little carpet-bag, 
took occasion to remark, sneeringly, upon the great, new, skiniDg 
portmanteau which Harry carried, neither himself nor Agnes, who 
had come to Stirling to see him away, were angry. They said 
“Poor Gilbert!” in a sympathetic look, and compassionated him, 
who had neither rank to maintain, nor a little wife to help him to 
maintain it; and when Agnes, as she went away, casting wistful 
looks behind her at Harry, caught a glimpse of Gilbert’s great, sal- 
low, unwholesome face, surmounted by its little traveling-cap, and 
encircled by its coarse, wiry hair, she could almost have been bold 
enough to turn back, and follow Harry. She contrasted them in 
her mind a hundred times, during her melancholy drive home, and 
had many a dreary thought about temptation, and evil company, 
and Harry “ led away.” 

Poor Harry! he was always “ led away:” for not one of his anx- 
ious watchers could prevail with herself to speak of his errors in 
harder words than these. 

As Agnes returned home, she called at Blaelodge to take up the 
children; for their holidays were over, and they had returned to 
school; and a little cluster of other children, also returning from 
school, hung on behind the carriage, and kept up a little quick 
tramp of feet behind, tempting John now and then to wave his 
whip good-humoredly over their heads, and warn them that he 
would “comedown the next time.” But John, who came from 
Maidlin Cross himself, never came down; and Violet and Katie, 
peering out of the window on either side, nodded to the heads of 
their respective factions, and whispered to each other who was at 
school, and who was “ gathering stanes,” as they passed baud after 
band — some with books and slates, some girded with their great 
work aprons, returning from the field. 

From the open doors at Maidlin Cross, the pleasant firelight shines 
out upon the road, reddening its sprinkled snow; and figures stand 
in the door-ways, dark against the cheery light within; and voices 
ring, clear and sharp, through the air. The carriage, now deserted 
by its band of attendants, begins to grow rattier dreary as it ad- 
vances into the darkness, and Agnes does not speak, and Katie and 
Violet can not see each other’s faces; but they are quite cheered and 
revived, so long as they can hear the far-off sound of those voices 
at Maidlin Cross. 

And by the fireside Martha and Rose sit very silently. A iaint 
sound comes from the river, and the wind whistles shrill among the 
leafless trees; but except these, and now and then an occasional 
noise from the kitchen, where Dragon has been summoned in to sit 
with Mysie and her companion, that there may be “ a man in the 
house,” there is perfect stillness within and without They are both 
working— you would think they never do anything but work— and 
Doth are absorbed and lost in their owl thoughts. When at rare in- 
tervals they speak, it is to wonder liow tar Harry will be by tin's 
time, and what he will see in London, and when lie vv ill return; but 
they do not say to each other that they tremble for Harry, nor tell 
what distinct remembrances arise before them both, of the sad 
pcenes of the past; yet now and then a sudden start* and quick look 


1G4 


HARRY MUIR. 


round this cheerful room, discover to you that they have forgotten 
where they are for the moment, and that the dim walls of Mrs. 
Rodger’s parlor, the proper background of many a recalled grief, 
are more clearly present before them, than this blighter and more 
prosperous place. 

Yet they are cheered, in spite of themselves, when Agnes and her 
little companions come in, dazzled, out of the darkness; and Lettie 
volunteers a confession of some fear as they came along that dark 
road, close to the Lady’s Well. Silence is not congenial to Agnes, 
and the baby cries loudly in the nursery; and little Harry, very 
sleepy, rouses himself up to devour cakes, and shallow as much 
tea as is permitted. So the night passes away; but a hundred times 
they fancy tliey hear Harry’s summons at the outer door; and al- 
most believe with a thrill between hope and fear, that he has come 
home. 

The days pass, and grow into weeks, and still they sit all the long 
evening through, and again and again fancy they hear the sound 
of his return, and hold their breath in eager listening. A few letters, 
containing long lists of things he has seen, come to them tardily; 
but they never think of Harry, in his extreme occupation, carrying 
these letters about with him for a day or two, before he recollects 
to send them away. The farm-manager comes now and then, anx- 
ious to see Allenders; for uo w the frost has broken up, and a gen- 
ial dry season has succeeded it, and the cautious Armstrong is slow 
to do anything without his employer’s approval. Borne fertile, 
well-cultivated land, tor a lease of which Harry was bargaining 
with Sir Johu Dunlop’s factor, as a profitable addition to his own 
farm, has been secured by another applicant during Harry’s ab- 
sence; and the mason who contracted for Harry’s new byres and 
stables, after a long delay by tl)£ trost, now refuses to go on till 
lie has received one of the payments to which he is entitiid. But 
no answer comes to the letters in which these matters are spoken of 
— his short notes only speak of sights and constant occupation, and 
he never says when he is to return. 

The cold, mild, early February comes in quietly; and the nightly 
rains patter upon the trees, and swell the burn to hoarseness^ and 
plash in the swollen river. In the morning, when the feeble sun- 
shine falls dimly upon the lawn, and its flower borders, Violet and 
Katie rejoice over, here and there, a golden or purple crocus, and 
eagerly point out the buds swelling on the trees; but at night it is 
always rain, striking on the bare branches, and filling the whole 
air with a sound of mysterious footsteps passing to and fro around 
the lonely house. And within the house they all grow very still — 
they all listen for Harry’s step, for Harry’s call; and their hearts 
tremble, and their frames shiver, as every night they think he will 
return. 

But Febiuary is nearly past, and a March gale, impatient of the 
slow progress of the year, lias sprung up among the hills before his 
time, and rends the clouds over Demeyet, tossing them scornfully 
to the east and to the west, when at last they hear Hairy come home. 
And he does not come unexpectedly; but has written before, Hat- 
ing day and hour, which lie religiously keeps. His dress is worn, 
and out of order; his shining new portmanteau flayed and dim. 


HARRY MUIR. 


165 


some articles of its contents lost, and almost all injured ; but he says 
nothing of excuse or apology lor his long delay, and is fretted and 
irritated only when he hears of its results, liberally blaming every- 
body concerned. However, by and by, everything goes on again— 
goes on after a fashion, languidly, and without success; for Harry 
no longer cares about his fields. 


CHAPTER XXXY1. 

.... Let them go, 

To ear the land that hath some hope to grow. 

For I have none. . , TT 

King Richard II. 

It is the seed time— the time of hope. The lawn at Allenders is 
traced with an outline of living gold, crocuses clustering up like 
children out of the fresh awakened soil; and day by day the brown 
busks swell upon the trees, and the fields add pile by pile to their 
velvet mantle. Your heart leaps when you staud in (he morning sun- 
shine, and hear the burn call to the river, and the river, with its 
happy voice, pass on to the great sea. And all along this highway 
through which the children pass to school, the hedges put out timid 
leaves^ venturing upon the chill, which in the morning brightness 
bid their lingering neighbors courage; and down among the long 
dewy grass, vou can find here and there an early primrose, half 
timid halt triumphant, holding up its delicate chalice to receive 
the dew of heaven. The cows are marching gravely to their sweet 
pastures, the little “ herds ” straying after them, with all the win- 
ter’s “ schulin ” over, perchance to be dreamt upon through these 
meditative silent days, percbacce to spring up in songs, like the 
natural voices of the springs that run among the bills, perchance to 
be merrilv forgotten; but cheerful voices ring about the laud, and 
tender sunshine glistens on Demeyet, and an odor and fragrance of 
sweet Hope, makes the wide atmosphere blessed, feweet Hope! in- 
heritance and portion of human hearts, which God gives not to his 
verv angels, but only unto us. 

Ah Hope— good Hope— God’s tenderest angel! coming back 
with the morning light to hearts which believed in the darkness, 
that thou wert gone forever! opening all doors, however barred, 
and when one hides his face from thee, touching him with wonder- 
ful touches, earnest and wistful, so that he can not choose but look 
in tliv sweet face again. Not always bright, not always gently pen- 
sive-desperate sometimes, and tearful to look upon, seeing nought 
before thee but a possibility; and sometimes looking down, solemn 
and orave, upon places which thou hast been constrained to leave, 
and whence faces of agony gaze up to thee, clutching at the skirts 
of thy garments, hoping against Hope! . _ . 

The year passed on, the flowers blossomed, the early trees began 
to shake out their leaves about the house of Allenders the °d° r 
primroses came in at the door, the voices of children made the 
walls rim*-, and youth was with them all, to beguile them into care- 
less faith ; but Hope, hooded and veiled as for a journey, and dwell- 
ing no longer with them in their chambers, stood on the thieshold 


/ 


HARRY MUIR. 


166 

ready to depart. Again and again tlie dim face turned, as it to stay, 
reluctant and loath to loose her garments, from their eager hands; 
but she never entered freely to dwell with them again. 

The works went on with intermitting energy; novy altogether 
neglected, now forced forward with spasmodic exertions. The 
laborers at Maidlin grew pinched and careworn, exposed to a 
capricious authority, which sometimes lei t them idle for a week or 
two, and then poured upon their hands arrears of labor, which it 
was now too late to accomplish well. The wives murmured and 
recalled the steady “ wage” which the old farmer gave; the men 
lounged round the Cross, and shook their heads, and prophesied 
ruin; the little shop newly opened, languished, and its keeper 
vainly lamented the folly which brought him to Maidlin. Sober 
agriculturists looking on, not without a quiet satisfaction in the 
truth of their own predictions, settled into their old quietness with a 
word of pity for Harry— poor Harry! His new farm building, built 
at great cost, stood empty and useless; his f arm- manager, too cau- 
tious to proceed by himself, wandered about whole days to consult 
Alleuders, and when he could not find him, or found him indis- 
posed to enter upon necessary business, went home in irritation aud 
disgust — went home to find Gilbert Allenders established in his re- 
spectable house, corrupting his young son aud offending his daugh- 
ters; and Armstrong, like the laborers, shook his head, and sighed 
a heavy sigh tor poor Harry. 

Within the house of Allenders they were all very silent. Martha, 
making no comment upon Harry’s life, tried to blind her eyes, and 
take out of them the vigilant jealous love which would not be de- 
luded. Poor little Agnes, dispirited and pale, went about the house 
with her baby, forget ling all her girlish songs and laughter. Kose, 
wearying and sickened of the dreams which had been her sole solace, 
woiked on in silence, and never cared to stir abroad; and merry lit- 
tle Katie Calder, the oniy free heart among them, could not compre- 
hend the vague gloom which so often overpowered even Letlie— for 
Lettie’s dreary thoughts had returned to her agaiu. 

“ Lettie, dinna be sae dull.” pleaded Katie Calder: “ naebody 
ever sings or says a word now — naebody but Allenders, and the 
doctor, when he comes; but 1 dinna like the doctor, Violet, and they 
canna bide him at Maidlin Cross.” 

”1 think he’s a bad man,” said Violet, decidedly — and she 
clinched her hand, and stamped her little foot upon Dragon’s stair. 

“ Ay, bairns,” said Dragon; ” and I would like to hear somebody 
explain in a sensible way wnat gies him such a grip o’ Mr. Hairy. 
You’ll no ken, missie; you’re ower wee; but if there was the like 
of Boston, or the young lad Livingstone, that converted sae monv 
hunder folk on the Monday of the preachings at the kirk of Shotts, 
or John Welsh, that wore the veiy stanes with his praying, to the 
fore now, 1 wouldna care to take my fit in my hand and gang away 
to ask their counsel; for, ye see, Mr. Hairy’s a different man from 
yon— a very different kind o' man — and how the like of this chield 
has gotten such maistry over him is a miracle to me. I kent within 
mysel it was an ill sign when they ca'd him Hairy. There’s ne’er 
been a Hairy Allenders from Ledily Violet’s time till now.” 

Lettie would not speak of family concerns even to Dragon. She 


HARRY MUIR. 


16? 

had already the instinctive pride which hides the wound in its own 
breast, and dies rather than complain; so she changed the subject 
rapidly. 

“ Dragon, you never told us the stoiy about the laird that planted 
the oak; and I thought myself, when 1 was at the water-side, that t 
heard it groan; but how could it groan, Dragon, at the season the 
man was killed? How could it ken the season, and il only a tree?” 

“ It’s just because ye have nae knowledge, misSie,” said Dragon. 
“ There’s me mysel’ noo, an s^uld man. I’m aye cauld. and aye 
creeping to mv bit spunk of fire — ye might say how should 1 ken 
the seasons; but the oak has its fit constant in the earth, and its 
head to the sky. and bears the water every day, and teels the rain 
and the sun, and kens when to put forth its first leaves, and when 
to let them fa’, better than the wisest man that ever lived upon this 
earth. And weel may it groan, the auld oak — its langer in the serv- 
ice of the family than me; and do ye think I dinna groan mony a 
time, to see a fine lad like Mr. Hairy led away.” 

“Dragon, he’s my Harry!” cried little Violet in a sudden pas- 
sion, stamping her foot again violently on the stones, while the tears 
fell down her cheeks, and quivering lip and dilating nostril bore 
witness to the force of her feelings. “He’s our Harry— he’s my 
Harry, Dragon! and 1 wish God would take me— oh, 1 wish God 
would put me in a grave, my lane, and kill me, it He would keep 
Harry well!” 

And the tears poured down over Violet’s cheeks, and she dashed 
her hand into the air, and cried aloud. 

Poor little Lettie! many an elder, many a wiser, never a more 
loving heart, has lost itself in such another agony, chafing against 
that inscrutable providential will, which we call fate. 

Katie Calder looked on with wonder and dismay. Honest little 
Katie could not comprehend what this strange emotion was; but 
with her natural instinct she made instant endeavors to “ diveit ” 
her little friend. And Dragon looked at Violet with his wandering 
light blue eyes, like a man half-awakened from a dream; but as the 
child’s highly wrought feelings subsided, and she sat down on the 
steps and wept, he fell back'' into his old torpor. You could al- 
most have thought that this strange voice of passion in the child 
had rung back through the waste of years, and lighted upon the 
man’s heart which lay sleeping in Edom Comrie s breast. 

“ Eh, Lettie, Willie Paterson’s broken his leg, ” said Katie Calder. 
“ It was orTthe big slide between Mrs. Cogan’s and Maidlin, and a’ 
the bovs play at his mother’s window now, to let him hear them 
when he’s lying in his bed. It was little Johnnie Paxton that told 
me. Dragon, when he came to the kitchen to see Mysie.” 

“ W’llie Paterson’s a fine laddie of himsel’,” said Dragon, “ and 
has a great notion of you, missie; but mind, lie’s only a puir 
widow’s son, and besides, he’s gotten in among some muckle ill 
callants, and they’re leading him away.” 

“Dragon” said Lettie gravelv, “when folk are led aw ay, are 
they no doing ill themselves? is' it a’ the blame of the one that 

leads them away, and no their ain, Dragon?” 

“ vVeel I’ll just tell ye a story, missie, said the old man. 
“ When i was a young lad, i had ance a brother, and he was easily 


HARRY MUIR. 


168 

beguiled. So a sodger out. ot the town got him, and courted at 
him, and gat red him drink, and led him into every kind of evil, till 
the poor callant lost his employ, and listed, and ga’ed away across 
the sea to the war. By a’ accounts he was little steadier when he 
was away, than he had been at hame, though he had a guid heart 
for a’ that, and was aye kind to his friends, and at the end ot the 
war he came back just as simple as ever he was, with a sma’ pen- 
sion, and as many wounds as might have served a regiment, lie 
wasna weel hame, when up turnecL this deevil of a sodger again — 
where the tane was, ye were sure To find the tither — and within a 
year, George Connie was dead and buried. Now ye’ve baith guid 
judgments to be bairns — wha was’t that should bear the blame?” 

“ It was the sodger, Dragon,” said Katie Calder, with instant de- 
termination. 

Violet said nothing. She was pulling away the withered fibers of 
ivy from Dragon’s wall. 

‘‘ I think folk sbouldna be led away,” said Lettie slowly, after a 
considerable pause; ” and you never say folk are led away when 
they do good things, Dragon. 1 think it was his blame too, as well 
as the other man’s.” 

” l ie’s in his grave this forty year, said Dragon,” “ but i mind him 
better than 1 mmd his nameson, Giordie Paxton, that 1 saw only 
yestreen. Maybe 1 should have ga’en sooner to my account mysel, 
and wan beside a’ my ain friends; but for a’ I’m sae auld, bairn, 1 
never crave to be away; and mony a young head I’ve seen laid the 
mools, since my ain was as white as it is this day. No that I’m 
bragging o’ that, missie — but I’m auld, and 1 never feel ony dinnles 
noo. 1 think my heart has slippit down soma gate, where trouble 
can never get a rug at it; and I’m aye pleased with the light and 
the guid day, and wi’ a book whiles, and a crack, and my meat reg- 
ular. and naething to fash me; and 1 see nae reason 1 have for 
deeing, though I am an auld mam” 

Strange, broken gleams shone out ot Dragon’s wandering eyes as 
bespoke, nodding his head feebly with a half-palsied motion— fitful 
glances, out of his torpor, of the heart and spirit which long ago 
made him a man; but the soul dwelt benumbed in its wintery habi- 
tation, like some forlorn dweller among the hills whose hut the 
snow has buried— and resigned itself to the slumbrous spell, without 
strength to struggle into consciousness of anything higher than the 
warmth and ease in which it lay. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

“ I have heard when one lay dying, after long 
And steadfast contemplation of sure death, 

That sudden there would spring delicious hope, 

And boastful confidence of health restored. 

Into the heart which had not threescore throbs 
Of its worn pulse to spend— 

There is a madness that besets the verge 

Of full destruction— madness that hath wild dreams 

Of victory and triumph.'” 

‘‘How’s the farm getting on, Harry? Armstrong doesn’t seem 
very jubilant about it. What is to become of the land?” said Gil- 
bert Allenders. 


169 




HARRY MUIR. 


They were sitting in the little round turret-room, looking out 
from the open door upon the lands of Allenders, and many a fair 
acre besides. A dewy May evening was shedding sweetness and 
peace over it all, and through the whole wide country before them 
the setting sun found out, here and there, a running water, and 
made all the hills aware of it with a triumphant gleam. Green corn 
rustling in the breeze, and gardens gay wiih blossoms, with here 
and there a red field of new plowed earth, or a rich luxuriant strip 
of meadow to diversity them, spread round on every side; and the 
hum of animate life, the indistinct farm-yard voice, the din of 
playing children, came to them dreamily, upon air which told you 
in loving whispers, of the hawthorn trees in those deep lanes below. 

In Harry’s eye shines an unusual gayety; and the confidence which 
sometimes deserts him, leaving him in such morose and sullen mel- 
ancholy, has returned to-day. Not all natural is his renewal; for 
excitement, which makes Martha crush her hands together, and 
sends Agnes away secretly to weep, animates him. with its passing 
gleam; but still he has command of himself, and is above Gilbert s 


sneers. (> 

“ What’s to become of the land? It will do famously, of course! ’ 
said Harry; “and it’s only Armstrong’s caution that makes him 
quiet about it. It Fairly remains in the market for a year or two I 
think L will buy it, Gilbert. They say it once belonged to the estate 
of Allenders and Hoolie too, which is now Sir John s. I should 
like to bring the land up to what it was in the old times; and I say 
Gibbie, man, you shall have a house, a regular red pi 1-box, with 
such a surgery as will suit you; and settle down, and have an ap- 
pointment at once, to doctor all my tenants. 1 should have quite a 
band of ietainers it Fairly were added to Allenders. 

“ It’s very well you got the estate, Harry,” said Gilbert, with a 
sneer which poor Harry could not see. “ If it had fallen into our 
hands it might have remained as it was, till the end of time, and 
neither neen improved nor increased. Thank you for the * P^' boK * 
Harry; 1 always knew you were a warm friend. Ill depend on 

getting it, I promise you.” 

” said Harry; “but I’m not quite 
’ve ordered home a great stock of 

nne came j. uuu „ Til have room foi them all; plow 

horses— magnificent fellows— and the finest cows that ever were 
seen in the respectable Carse of Stirling; but they take a lot of 
money, all tliese P things; and 1 should be very glad to have the har- 
vest over.” , 

“ The harvest? But this first year, I suppose, you don t expect 

vptv much from it?* S3id Gilbert. B .„ . 

" Don’t 1? Well, we'll see,” said Harry, laughing; but I must 
be economical this year, Gilbert-going on at this rate won t do. 
I've sormt a small fortune this vear; tobesure, it was on the land, 
said Harry musing; “cattle, stables, byres, Armstrong and all his 
laborers not^to speak of the plow graith, and the harrows and 
the thrashing-machine, and all the Ihtngs they have bothered me 
about • hut we must be thrifty this yeai. 

“ 1 believe you’ve no memorandum of the money you lent me. 


getting it, I promise you. 

“ And so you shall, Gilbert,” s 
prepared to buy Fairly now. 1 ve 
fine cattle. 1 don’t know it we 11 




170 


HAKKY MUIR. 


1 must make out one for you to-night, Harry/’ said Gilbert, care- 
lessly. “ Do you know how much it is?” 

“ Not 1,” said the lofty Harry; ” nor do 1 care to know. Never 
mind memorandums — we know each other too well tor that.” 

And Harry, whose capital had shrunk to the final thousand, and 
whose last expensive purchase remained to be paid for, led the way 
down-stairs in high glee, feeling himself already the second founder 
of the family, and rich in patriarchal wealth. At the gate, Agnes 
and Rose were looking out/eagerlv along the road, from which a 
tramp of hoofs penetrated into tnevery drawing-room of Allenders. 
Little Katie Calder stood upon tue summit of the low wall, with 
one foot on a tree, and Martha, a little behind them, looked out with 
much gravity and concern. 

Great work-horses, with ribbons at their ears, and elaborate deco- 
rated tails, were marching with heavy hoofs into Harry’s stables; 
and the lowing of Harry’s kine from the fields summoned the new 
milk-maids to lead them home. You would have thought it the 
most prosperous of homesteads, with its gray, thin house, and 
abrupt turret, telling of long descent and elder times; its superan- 
nuated Dragon witnessing to the family kindliness which would 
not abandon an ancient servant; its great farm ranges, new and 
shining, which testified, or seemed to testify, to present energy and 
wealth; and its youthful family crowded about the gate, from pretty 
little matron Agnes to the meditative Lettie, standing by Dragon’s 
side in the road without. Prosperous, peaceful, full of naiural 
joys and pleasant progress; but Harry’s flushed, excited face, and 
the coarse pretension of Gilbert Allenders came in strangely to 
break the charm. 

“ Come along, Agnes, and see them,” said Harry, loudly. “ I 
told you they were splendid fellows, Gilbert. Come, never mind 
your bonnet; and Gilbert will give you his arm, Rosie — come 
along.” 

Wait till L get a shawl on— tor the servants, Harry,” said 
Agnes, freeing herself from his grasp. 

“ AVhat about the servanls? it’s only at your own door,” said 
Harry, securing her arm in his own; “ and the light shines in your 
hair, Agnes, very prettily. Come away, little wife.” 

And Harry went on singing — 

“ There’s gowd in your garters, Marion, 

And siller on your white hause bane.” 

to the secret misery of Lettie, who thought he was humiliating 
himself, and to the great wonder and astonishment of Katie Calder. 

But Rose drew firmly back, and would not go. Rose was very 
near hating Gilbert Allenders; so he went to the other side of 
Agnes, and they walked to the stables together— pror little Agnes 
nearly choking all the way with wounded pride, and shame, and 
iear, lest Harry might be offeuded in spite of her compliance. 

Why has Lady Dunlop never called on you again? and what 
has become of that pedantic son of heis?” said Harry, when they 
had returned, and were taking the tea which Agnes hoped would 
subdue him, “ It’s three or four months now since you called on 


HARRY MUIR. 171 

them, Agnes — why does not her ladyship return your Visit? and 1 
should just like to know what’s become of young Dunlop.” 

“ Hush, flariyl 1 don’t know— I can’t tell,” said Agnes, very 
humbly. Young Mr. Dunlop has never been here since that 
time— you mind, Martha— after Hairy came back from London.” 

” And why doesn’t the fellow come again?” said Harry. ” A 
pretty man he is, to think we’re to keep on good terms wiili him, 
when he never does anything to keep it up himself. And what's 
become of these Nettlehaugh people, and Haigli of Foggo Barns? 
1 suppose it’s your fault. Agues; you’ve been neglecting the proper 
forms — you’ve never called on them, 1 suppose?” 

“ Y’es, Harry,” said again the very low, timid voice of Agnes, 
“ you have forgotten — you went with me once to both Soggo aud 
Neltlehaugli, and Martha and I went another time, and they have 
never called since.” 

“ 1 should like to know what they mean,” said Harry loudly, 
his face flushing to a deep crimson. 44 1 suppose they think we’re 
not so good as them. Nevermind, Agnes; never mind, my little 
wife— you’ll be a richer woman yet, and see your son a greaier man 
than any half-dozen of these little lairdies. I’ll have all the work, 
you know, and I’ll take it gladly; but little Harry shall be heir to 
better land than young Dunlop will ever see. A set of nobodies 
setting up for something! I should like to know what they 
mean.” 

41 They were very kind at first,” murmured Agnes, scarcely able 
to restrain the tears with which her eyes were weighed down. 

44 They were very kind at first,” rep’eated Martha, distinctly, as 
she rose to leave the room, 44 and to-morrow, when you are alone, 
Harry, I will tell you what they mean.” 

Never since she entered Allenders had Martha's voice had this 
tone before. Her brother started and turned to look after her, with 
something of the mingled look — defiance, reverence, respect and 
pain— which they all knew on his face long ago; but Martha was 
gone without another word. It had a singular effect on Harry. 
He sat down at the table, leaned his head upon his hand, aDd gazed 
with fixed eyes on the vacant space before him; but he scarcely 
spoke again that night 


CHAPTER XXX YI11. 

Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief, 
Tho’ thou repent: yet I have still the loss. 
The offender’s sorrow lends but weak relief 
To him that bears the strong offense’s cross. 


As a decrepit father takes delight 
To see his active child do deeds of youth, 

So I, made lame by fortune’s dearest spite, 

Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth. 

Shakespeare— (Sonnets). 

The next morning Harry sat in sullen silence at the breakfast- 
table, scarcely raising his head. Agnes and Rose, with faltering, 
timid voices, never ceased addressing him They pressed upon 


HARRY MUIR. 


m 

him the food which he could not taste, they asked his opinion with 
tearful eyes and a visible tremor on the most trifling matters, they 
laid caressing hands upon his shoulders when they passed behind 
his chair; but these affectionate acts were very visible. They could 
not conceal the suppressed excitement of their great anxiety, nor 
their consciousness that another crisis had come in Harry’s fate. 

And even little Lettie stirred on her chair restlessly, like a startled 
bird, and felt her heart leaping at her very throat, and scarcely 
could speak for her parched lips and the strong beating of this 
same little anxious heart. And no one knew what heavy throbs 
beat against Martha’s breast — no longer fluttering and tremulous, 
but heavy as a death-knell. She said little, it is irue, but still she 
addressed Harry sometimes as usual— as usual — perhaps with a ten- 
derer tone— though Harry made no answer, save in monosyllables, 
to any of them all; and Martha very speedily rose from her p ace, 
and left the room. 

Another spasmodic attempt at conversation was made by Agnes 
and Rose, hut their own hearts beat so loudly in their ears, that they 
trembled for Harry hearing them. Poor Harry! through those long 
slow moments W'hich w^ere hours to them, he hung idly over the 
table, trifling with his baby’s coral— and it was not until all en- 
deavors at speech had failed, and a total silence— a silence of the 
most intense and painful excitement to his companions— had fallen 
upon them, that rousing himself with an effort, and putting back 
the hair from his damp forehead, he slowly rose and went away. 

Katie Calder, no* understanding all this, and slightly depressed 
by it, had just stolen out of theToom to gather up their books for 
school; so no one, save the wistful Lettie, w^as left with the young 
wife and Rose. They sat still for a short time in silence, eagerly 
listening to Harry’s footsteps as he passed through the hall to his 
little library and closed the door; and then Agnes clasped her hands 
upon her side, and gasped for breath, and said in a voice between a 
cry anil a whisper: 

“ What will she say to him? Oh, w'liat will Martha say to 
Harry, Rose?" 

“ I can not tell— 1 can not tell,” said Rose, wiinging her hands. 
“ Oh, if it were only over! I could break my heart when I look at 
Harry — 1 could break my heart!” And Rose put her hands over her 
face in just such a passionate burst of restrained sobbing as had 
come upon Violet before. 

After some time, they heard the slow footstep of Martha coming 
down the stairs, and both of them ran to the dooi to whisper an 
entreaty to her to “be gentle with Harry. Poor Harry!” They 
could scarcely say it for tears. 

When Martha entered the library, Harry, lounging in the win- 
dow-seat, was languidly turning over a paper. He, poor Harry! 
was little less excited than thej' were, and heats and chills came over 
him, and his eye fell under Martha’s mother 'eye; but the second 
nature which had risen like a cloud over that boy’s heart wdiich 
still moved within him, made, him stubborn and defiant still. 
w hen she came in, he threw down his paper with a slight start, as 
of impatience; and turning to her, rapidly asked: ” Well. Martha, 
what have you to say to me?” 




HARRY MUIR 


173 


“ Am 1 to have liberty to say it, Harry?” 

“ w hat folly to ask ine such a question, said Harry, angrily. 

“ Does my sister need to make a formal affair of it, like this when 
she has anything to say to me? Sit down, Martha, and don t look 
as if you came to school me; 1 may not be able to bear that very 
patiently, and I should be sorry to hurt you. Sit down, and tell 

me what it is?” . ^ ■, , 

Martha sat down with gathering coldness upon her face— cold- 
ness of the face alone, a mask to hide very different emotions. 

“ 1 come to-day while you are full master of yourself, and are 
alone ” she said, with slow and deliberate emphasis— Harry did 
not. know that she compelled herself to speak so, lest flic ^rmng 
tide of other words should pour tortkagainst her will- to anmi 
a question you asked yesterday. *ou desired to know wl at your 
neighbors meant by ceasing to seek, you; Harry, I wish to tell you 

W Harry' ^looked at her tor a moment, as if about to speak, but 
rapidly turning away eyes which could not meet the steady gravity 
of P hew, he to S ok up his paper, and without looking at it, played 

They mean,” proceeded Martha, slowly, that they do not 
choose to extend the couitesies of ordinary life to one who scorns 
and never seeks, the ordinary respect which is every man s right 
who lives without outward offense against God or man; they mean 
that they can not pietend to honor what you have set yourself to 
disgrace - they mean that the name, the house, the family which 
you can resign tor the meanest of earthly pleasures, have no claim 
of special regard upon them. Your lite is known in every peas- 
ant’s house: They talk of you at the firesides of your laborers: they 
say poor Allenders, and tell each other how you are l ed »way 
Harry' 1 ask you what right you have to be led aw ay? You teli 
me you are not a child, and will not bear lo be schooled by me. 
What rhdit have you, a man— a man, Harry— to suffer any otner 
min to lead you into evil? And this is what your neighbors 

me Rorrv dashed the paper from him in sudden passion. And 
w hat Ti gh f 3 have jou-what right have you? Martha, 1 have borne 
much: what Ught have you to speak to me in such words as 

th -God help met the dearest right that ever mother bad,” ex- 
, . a -vi , It n t Inn trer slowly ‘‘but because my soul has 

ttavaded aad aganlzert- because 1 put my hopes upon you. Harry 
mv hopes that were once shipwrecked, to be cast away again. 
Took at m“ mind me all your life, boy, before you defy me! 

have died ouf of my heart. 1 have failed, and you have faded, and 


HARRY MUIR. 


174 

there is no more expectation under the sun. But 1 call you to wit- 
ness you are mine — bought with the blood ot my tears and my 
travail — my son, Harry— my son !” 

He did not answer, he did not look at her, but only covered bis 
face with his hands. 

“ We are worsted, but. we need not be destroyed,” continued 
Maitha. I accept the failure that is past, and acquiesce in it, 
because it ha9 beeu God’s will — but God never wills that we should 
fail in the future, Harry. God be thanked that it lies continually 
before us, free of staiu." And hope is hard to me— may be it is 
because my tribulations have not wrought patience, that experience 
does not bring me hope. But 1 will hope airain — 1 will make an- 
other venture, and look for another harvest, Harry, if you will bid 
me! Not like the last — God forbid that it should be like the last! 
I will turn my face toward the needful conquest we have to make 
— you and me— and hope for that, though it is greater than taking 
a city. But Harry, Harry, 1 can not bear to see you sinking — 
harder than it is to them, who are weeping for you } r onder, it is to 
me who can not shed a tear. Harry, am I to hope again?”. 

But sad and terrible was the gleam in Martha’s dry strained eyes; 
not liae sunshine but like lightning, was the feverish hope for 
which she pleaded. 

And Harry rose and took her hand, himself trembling with strong 
emotion. “ From this day henceforth,” he vowed, with a choking 
voice, “ never more, Martha, never more, can 1 forget myself, and 
them, and you.” 

And there fell upon Martha a sudden relief of weeping, such as 
lu r eyes had not known for months. 44 You were once my boy, 
my bairn, Harry,” she said, with a strange hysteric smile, 44 I can 
not forsret that you were my bairn, my little brother — Harry — my 
hope!” 

And Harry covered his face once more, and was not ashamed to 
weep. 

Poor Harry! forever under the evil which had crusted his nature 
over, under all the pride, the jealousy, tlieself assertion of conscious, 
remorseful, unrepentant sin, the boy’s hc-art tender, fresh, and hope- 
ful, still dwelt in his breast. Only God can reconcile these strange 
contradictions; but when you reached to it— and many a time had 
this added a pang to Martha’s sufferings— you could not choose but 
deem it an innocent heart. 

By and by, Martha left the room— left him there to meditate 
upon this and on the past. Poor Harry’s heart lightened; in spite 
ot himseU, his attention wandered from these things of solemn 
weight and interest to little Harry playing under the walnut-tree. 
Now and then, it is true, he put his hand over his eyrs, and made 
his face grave, and mused, and even praj T ed; hut anon his mind 
wandered again. The great excitement of the last In ur sunk into 
repose, and Harry had seldom been so easily amused with the little 
stumbles an 1 misadventures of his child. At the oilier window, 
Agnes and Rose, unable to see anything, with their sick hearts and 
tearful eyes, sat in absorbed silefice, looking out indeed, but with- 
out noticing even the favorite boy. Above, Martha was kneeling 
before God, in prayer which wrung not her heart only, but every 


HARRY MUIR. 


fiber of her strained frame. Upon the sunny road without, little 
Lettie went silently to school, wiping a tear now and then from her 
cheek- all tor Harry; svhile Harry sat in the window of his library, 
the cloud gone from his brow, and a smile upon his lips, watching 
his child at play— with simple pleasure and interest, as if he himself 
were a child. 

And then he opened the window, and called to little Harry, 'With 
a sudden start, Agnes rose, and went out upon the lawn to read his 
face. His face was cloudless, smiling, full of quiet satisfaction and 
repose; and he had already begun to play with the child at the 
window. Agnes had only time to telegraph that all w r as well to 
Rose, when Harry called to her to get her bonnet and go out with 
him. With joy and relief she ran into the house to obey, and 
Harry met her at the library door, and said he wanted a little rest 
and relaxation to-day, and that she must persuade MartTia and Rose 
to let him row them down the river in the neglected boat; and 
Agnes went upstairs singing, and half weeping tor joy. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

“ Fair, through the lattice of yon cloud, the sun 
Throws to us, half' in stealth, his parting smile. 

Night comes anon.” 

It was June weather now — warm and full, and a deep peace had 
fallen over Allenders. Harry, who was not naturally temperate in 
anything, was almost intemperate in his reformation now. He ap- 
plied himself to business with devotion, had long consultations with 
Armstrong every morning, and repulsed coldly the usual familiari- 
ties of Gilbert Allenders. In his library, they always found the 
table covered with estimates and calculations, with expensive 
schemes for thrift, and elaborate economics ot farming; while out 
of doors, Harry went blithely about his fields again, conciliating 
once more the half alienated favor of his workmen, and regaining 
for himself the e'astic vigor and health, which had begun to be 
shaken. Agues sung to her baby all day long, till the very air 
within the house grew rich with ballad fragments. Rose, still a lit- 
tle weary in her heart, and longing secretly for a new beginning to 
her old dreams, began to interest herself in the pleasant pursuits cf 
free young womanhood, and forgot the family care, as well as her 
own individual one. Martha sunit back quietly into a temporary 
repose -was ill for a few days, and afterward very quiet— for ner 
frame had been shaken by severe exhaustion; very different from 
the natural good hope of common life, was the desperate stake for 
which she played; and when the moment, with all its pent-up and 
restrained excitement, was past, experience lifted its cold, prophetic 
voice again, and she could not choose but hear. 

But the gossips at Maidlin Cioss, glad to return to their kindlier 
opinion— for Harry’s good looks, and naturally gracious manners, 
gave them a strong prepossession in his favor— congratulated each 
other that Allenders was steady now, and quite another man, and 
that “ it bid to be ” a great comfort to his sister and his wife— for 
they unconsciously put Martha before Agnes, doing reverence to 


176 


HARRY MUIR. 


the more absorbing love. And young Mr. Dunlop, seeing Harry’s 
frank face brightened by renewed hope and wholesome pleasure, 
and hearing how sedulously he had begun to attend to all his con- 
cerns, was smitten with remorse for his rudeness, and brought his 
mother in state to call on Mrs. Alleuders, which her good-humored 
ladyship would have done months ago but for his restraining. 
Prosperity and peace returned again, as it seemed; and Harry's last 
thousand was still very little diminished. 

But it chanced that Cuthbert Charteris suddenly looked in upon 
the astonished household, on the very day of Lady Dunlop’s call. 
Cuthbert did not know that this call had a value quite separate 
from tneir pleasure in itself, to the family at Alleuders; ana he 
thought the tremulous agitation of both Agues and Hose originated 
in a cause very different from its real one. So Cuthbert was cold, 
constrained lind unhappy; scarcely able to conceal his contempt of 
Mr. Dunlop, and resolutely declining to remain, even for a single 
night. They, in their turn, misunderstood him; they thought he 
had heard something unfavorable of Harry, and* while they re- 
doubled their attentions to himself, they overwhelmed him with 
references to Harry's goodness, and stories of the kindness with 
which ail his laborers, and the little group of cottar wives at Maid- 
lin, regarded AUenders. If Cuthbert nad been sufficiently disen- 
gaged from his own engrossing concerns, these continual defenses 
would have made him fear: as it was, he could think of nothing 
but the Hose, which had never seemed so fair in his eyes as now, 
when he convinced himself that another was about to bear it away. 

Rose did not know what to think of Cuthbert. Had he been in- 
different to her all along? But Rose, with a natural pride in many 
things, conjoined the most perfect and unconscious humility in her 
estimate of herself; that he should be jealous, never entered into 
her mind— it was far easier to believe that he had never “ cared;” 
and Rose blushed even to acknowledge to herself that she once 
thought he “cared,” but doubting it now. Yet there was some- 
thing in Cutlibert’8 eyes- something in the full, grave look she 
sometimes met, which filled Rose with a vague thrill of emotion; 
and when he was gone she remembered this, and ceased to com- 
ment upon the rest. 

About a week after Cuthbert’s call, Harry went to Stirling, tak- 
ing Agnes with him. They were going on business— to draw 
money, of which Agnes claimed a considerable portion for her 
household expenses; and Harry himself, to the great content of all, 
had invited her to accompany him. They were quite at ease and 
quiet at home, and with the children, who rejoiced in a holiday, 
had taken a long ramble through woods and lanes in the afternoon, 
coming home laden wiih wild flowers. Even Martha, amused with 
Katie’s radiant pleasure, and Violet’s mingled reverie and mirth, 
had brightened quite iuseusibly, and Rose was as gay as the little 
girls themselves. They were all seated under the walnut-tree on the 
lawn when Harry and Agnes returned, and not a shadow crossed 
any of them, except the ill-favored one i>f Gilbert Alleuders, as be 
came in at the gate, resolved to stay to dinner whether he was asked 
or no. 

But the dinner passed, and still Harry kept Gilbert steadily at a 


HARRY MUIR. 


177 

distance. They could not sufficiently admire his strength and reso- 
lution, and how bravely he resisted the tempter. Gilbert himself 
seemed slightly surprised and baffled; and not a single disconcerted 
glance was lost on the rejoicing Allies, with whom there was only 
a single step between the greatest alarm tor Harry’s stability, and 
the gieatest pride and confidence in it. 

But when the eveuiug was considerably advanced, and they had 
all assembled in the drawiug-room, Harry began to talk of what 
they had seen and heard in Stirling. 

“ "Who do you think 1 met, Martha?” said the unthinking Harry. 
“Dick jbuchanan, my old plague in Glasgow; and what do you 
think he told me— 1 scarcely can believe it— that our frieud Char- 
ters was actually aoing to be mairied to his sister Clemie, a good- 
na ured clumsy girl, whom I used to see going to school. 1 could 
not have expected such a thing of Cliaiteiis.” 

And as Harry’s eye rested on Rose, he stopped suddenly, his face 
flushing all over with the deepest color; yet Rose displayed no emo- 
tion. A slight start, a momentary paleness, and then she put out 
her hand as it to grasp at something, drawing it back by and by 
with an unconscious motion of imagination, as if her prop had 
pained her — though she did not say a word. 

But her head grew giddy, and the light swam in her darkening 
eyes; and constantly in her mind was this impulse to take hold of 
something to keep herself from falling. When Gilbert tooic re- 
luctant leave, and she rose to bid him good night, her hand clutched 
at the back of an empty chair; and when she went to rest, with a 
ringing in her ears and a dimness before her eyes, Rose held by the 
wall on her way to her own chamber— not to support herself, though 
even her form tottered, but to support her heart, which tottered 
more. 

She did not think, nor ask, nor question anything; she was too 
much occupied in this same immediate necessity of holding herself 
up, aud propping her stricken strength. 

“ 1 believe 1 am a fool,” said Harry, suddenly, when Rose with- 
drew; “ 1 never thought — Cbarteris was here so short a time the 
other day, and it is so long since he came before — 1 never thought 
of Rose; but she took it very quietly, Martha. Is she interested, 
do you think? Will she feel it? 1 am sure, for my own part, 1 
always believed that Chartetis liked Rose, and 1 can not tell what 
made me sc foolish to-night.” 

“Perhaps it was very well,” said Martha; “it must have been 
told, and the manner of telling it is a small matter; but Rose, as 
you say, took it very quietly. 1 dare say she will not care about it, 
Harry.” 

Martha kuew better — but she thought it well to pass over the new 
grief lightly, since it was a grief which could not bear either sympa- 
thy^ or consolation. 

But when Leltie next morning, prompted by a sudden caprice, 
ran “ all the way ” to the Lady’s Well, to gather some wild roses 
and the fragrant meadow -queen for Martha, she saw some one sit- 
ting on the stone where Lady Violet sat, aud was only tortified by 
the bright daylight to approach. But it was Rose’s muslin gown, 
and not the silvery garments of the fairy lady, which lay upon the 


178 


HARRY MUIR. 


turt; and Rose was leaning with both her hands heavily upon the 
canopy of the well, and looking into the deep brushwood, as Lettie 
many a time had looked— though this was a deeper abstraction than 
even the long silent reveries ot the poetic child. With a sudden 
consciousness that there lay some unknown sorrow here, the little 
girl came forward shyly, looking up with her wistful eyes in her 
sister’s face. It did not seem that she interrupted Rose’s thoughts, 
and Violet began silently to gather her flowers. Ihere were some 
wild roses, half opened buds, which could be carried even by a 
schoolgirl, without risk of perishing, for one of the “young 
ladies ’’ at Blaelodge, whom Lettie liked greatly, and who much 
desired some tangible memorial ot the place whence the Lady Vio- 
let of Lettie’s oft repeated story passed away; and a sweet fairy 
posie of the graceful queen of the meadow for Martha's especial 
gratification, and some drooping powdery flowers of grass, from 
which the seed was falling, for Lettie herself. When they were 
alt gathered, Lettie sat down softly on the grass at Rose’s feet, and 
laid the flowers in her lap, and was very quiet, venturing now and 
then a wistful glance up to the absorbed face above her. 

And by and by, the heavy leaning of Rose’s arms relaxed, and 
she leaned upon her knee instead, and looked down on Violet. 
“ Lettie, 1 think my heart will break,” said Rose, with a low sigh; 
and again she put out her hand. 

She could not say so much to Martha; she could not tell it to 
another in all the wide world — for the shy heart would render no 
reason for its sudden grief; but she could say it to her little sister, 
who asked no reason — who did not speak at all in vain consolation, 
but who only looked up, with such a world of innocent sympathy 
and wonder in her dark, wistful eyes. 

Poor Rose! a hero and martyr to her own pride of womanliness, 
will never tell what this blight is— never., if it should kill her— and 
she thinks it will kill her, poor, simple heart! Since she heard “ it ” 
— and she never describes to herself more definitely w T hat it was she 
heard — she ha3 been in a maze, and never reasoned on it. She can 
not reason on it — we so seldom think , afler all, either in our joys 
or troubles— she only is aware of long trains of musings sweeping 
through her mind, iike dreams, which place her iD the strangest 
connection with Cuthbert and Cuthbert’s bride, and bring them 
continually in her way; and she always assumes a sad dignity in 
her fancies, and will do anything rather than have them believe 
that this moves her; and then she tries to think ot Harry, and of 
the family cares and expectations, to rouse her from this stupor of 
her own; and getting sick with the struggle- -sick alike in body 
and in heart— lays down her head upon" her hands, and faintly 
weeps. 

“Now, Lettie. come; they will wonder where we are,” said 
Rose; and she dipped her band in the little marble basin of the 
Lady’s Well, and bathed her aching eyes. Lettie, with a visionary 
aw r e, bathed hers too, as if it were an act of worship; and was very 
sad, in the depths of her heart. 

Rose was a bad dissembler. It was quite impossible to hide from 
any of them that she was very melancholy; but Harry saw less of 
tbs truth than the rest, for Rose struggled valiantly to smile before 


HARRY MUIR. 170 

Harry, and to keep all her g]<x>ni concealed. He was a man, even 
though ne was her dearest brother. She would sutler anything be- 
I* foie she would disclose her heart to him. 

Agnes, troubled and perplexed, not knowing whether to take no- 
tice of Rose’s soi row or not, paid her all manner of little tender at- 
j tentions, as it she had been ill. Martha, asking nothing — for Martha 
knew veiy well that Cuthbert had broken no word, noi had ever 
definitely said to Rose anything which could give grounds for this 
sadness — talked to her sometimes of the common trials which com- 
; mon people bear and overcome; sometimes awoke her out of a 

j reverie, with a kind hand upon her shoulder, and a quick word in 

her ear; employed her all day long at something; watched her per- 
1 pelually with a mother’s unwavering care; but little Leilie, looking 
wistfully up, with her dark, melancholy eyes — Lettie, who knew 
that Rose’s heart was “like to break,” and who deserted all her 
play to sit beside her on the carpet, and press close to her feet, and 
caress them softly with her hand — Lettie was perhaps the be3t coin' 
for ter of all. 

But meanwhile the unconscious Cuthbert wearied himself with 
| continual business, and thougf t murderous thoughts of the inno- 
cent young Mr.' Dunlop; till his mother, alarmed about his health, 
prevailed upon him, with many solicitations, to go away for a 
month, and travel, and rest. And Clenne Buchanan, more uncon- 
scious still, romped, to the full heart’s content of a strong joyous 
; girl of sixteen, among the Argyllshire hills, and reverencing greatly 
the lofty attainments of her Cousin Cuthbert, would quite as soon 
! have thought of marrying old Dr. Black, who christened her, and 
whose sermons she had laboriously listened to almost every Sabbath 
day in all these sixieen years. Clemie had a sweetheart of her own 
— a young merchant, like her brothers; and Cuthbert, as he trav- 
eled southward, cast longing looks toward Stirling, and scarcely 
i could deny himself another glance at Allenders; but looks do not 
k travel over straths and rivers, and Rose never knew the affectionate 
longings, which could not prevail with themselves to relinquish her 
remembrance and her name. 


k CHAPTER XL. 

What man is he that boasts of fleshly might, 

And vaine assurance of mortality, 

Which, all so soone as it doth come to fight 
Against spirituall foes, yields by and by? 

Faery Queen. 

That day, beginning with deep sadness to one member of the 
family, and with anxious sympathetic concern to the rest, was the 
1 last day of hope and peace in Allenders. 

For on the very next— another June day, rich with the most glo- 
rious mockery of joy and sunshine — Martha’s last desperate hope 
Ijl died in her heart. It had struggled long in its strange, feverish life- 
pi time; now it tell at a blow. 

A gracious invitation to Sir John Dunlop’s had come that even- 
| mg to Harry; and Harry spent the day with Gilbert Allenders in a 


HA RUT MUIR. 


180 

ride to Stirling, from which he did not return, until the full time 
when Sir John would enter his stately dining-room. Agnes, dressed 
for a full hour, stood at the window trembling and miserable, look- 
ing for llarry; and Martha was on the turret; and Rose, roused out 
of her own trouble, wandering along the road with the children, to 
meet him. Pud when Hairy came, he came with glittering eye and 
ghastly smiles, as they used to see him, long ago, in Glasgow; and 
bidding Gilbert good-bye, with loud demonstrations of friendship, 
at the gale, came in great haste, and ran upstairs, taking three 
steps at a time, to get to his dressing-room, and make ready tor 
Lady Dunlop’s party. Agnes went after him timidly, to say it was 
too late, and to beg him not to go; but Harry laughed first, and 
then frowned, and then commanded — he was resolved to go, what- 
ever was the hour. 

“ He is not fit to go, he will disgrace himself forever, the}’’ will 
never speak to him again,” sobbed the little wife. “ Uh! Martha, 
speak to him, tell him it is too late.” 

Hoor little Agnes! she could not believe that Martha’s “ speaking 
to him ” would have no effect. 

In half an hour, he came down-stairs, dressed, and considerably 
subdued, though still with an exeitemenl only too easily perceptible. 

” Where’s John with the carriage?” exclaimed Harry. “ Why 
does that fellow always keep us waiting? why is he not at the 
door?” and he rang the bell violently. 

“ Tou are much too late, and they are punctilious people; 1 beg 
you will not go to-niglit. It is easy to send an apology,” said Mar- 
tha, who was calmer now than she had been through all her time of 
hope. 

“ It. is this night, and no other, that I intend to go,” said Harry; 
“ ami 1 am not inclined to suffer any more dictation. What’s the 
matter, Agnes? why do you make her cry, Martha? Must l take 
her away with red eyes, all for your pleasure? Tell John to bring 
round the carriage instantly— instantly, do you hear? be has kept 
his mistress waiting long enough alieady. ” 

And as the maid withdrew, staitled and astonished, Harry himself 
went to the door and stood upon the threshold, waiting for John. 

“You’re not angry, Martha,” pleaded poor little Agnes, “he 
does not know what he is saying. And never mind sitting up, it 
would only grieve you; 1 must try to take care of poor Harry my- 
self to-night.” 

Martha made few- demonstrations, but she put her arm round the 
little wife now, and Kissed the cheek upon which the tears were 
still wet. This caress nearly overcame Agues, but with a strong 
effort, she wiped her eyes, and went away. 

Dreaiily passed that evening. A heavy shower came on as it 
darkened, and all the night through beat upon the leaves, so that 
Leliie, holding her breath as she learned her lessons, fancied that 
footsteps were traveling round and round the house— continually, 
without pause or intermission, round and round. And the wind 
whistled with a little desolate shrill cry, about the silent walls, and 
the burn ran fast and full into the river. Every sound without be- 
came distinctly audible in the extreme quietness, and other sounds 
which did not exist at all, stole in, imagined, upon their strained 


HARRY MUIR. 


181 


ears. Sounds of carriage- wheels, which never advanced, but al- 
ways rumbled on at a distance, shrill cries or voices hovering in the 
air, footstps upon the stair, footsteps without — it was a dreary 
night! And when it became late, and it was full time tor Harry’s 
return, Martha stole down-stairs to the lower room, and opened 
the window, and stood by it in the dark, watching for their car- 
riage-wheels. The jasmine rustled on the walls, with an early star 
of white specking its dark luxuriance — alas! those jasmine flowers! 
Martha plucked inis half-opened one hastily, and tlirrw it away — 
she could not Dear its fragrance. 

And Rose crept after her, and sat upon a chair at the window, 
leaning her throbbingbrow on Martha’s arm: “ Hush! 1 hear them,” 
said Martha; it was nothing but this imagined sound w r hick had 
rung through qll the night. 

At last they came, and though the sisters heard Harry’s voice 
while yet the carriage was hidden in the darkness, he handed his 
wife out very quietly, when they came to the dobr. On their way 
upstairs, Agnes felt her hand caught in Martha’s, and answered 
the implied question, in a tremulous whisper: “ JSfo doubt they saw 
— no doubt they s&w — and pity me, Martha, for such a night; but 
may be, may be, it was not sc had as we might have feared.” 

That night nothing more was either asked or told, and it was not till 
the forenoon of the next day, when Harry had gone out, that Agnes, 
leaning on Martha's arm, and with Rose bending eagerly over her 
on the other side, walked slowly along the mall, and told her story. 
They had been received with much stiffness and ceremony by Sir 
John, his son, and his daughter, who evidently thought their late 
arrival a quite unwarrantable assumption of familiarity. Kindly, 
good-humored Lady Dunlop had soothed and comforted Agnes; 
but the hauteur ot their reception plunged Harry into a fit of sullen 
silence, which was even mors painful to see lhan his excitement. 
Then, Agnes said, some stranger present began to comment severely 
on the rude cotliouses at Maidlin Cross, and to wonder why none of 
the neighboring landlords interfered to provide better accommoda- 
tion for their workmen. That Harry fired at this, and challenging 
Sir John to do his part, pledged himself that on his property it 
should be immediately looked to, was only what the listeners ex- 
pected to hear; but he did it with such vehemence and energy, Ag- 
nes reported, that some smiled, some looked grave and pitiful, all 
turned away, and for half an hour before they left, no one spoke to 
Harry or herself, save good Lady Dunlop, who called her my dear, 
and patted her shoulder, and did all she could to soothe the shame 
and bitter feelings, which the neglect of the others wounded be- 
yond soothing. 

But Harry was gone this morning to the builder who erected his 
barns, to see about model cottages; and Agnes almost for the first 
time began to be alarmed about the means. Could Harry afford to 
build model houses after all the outlay of his expensive life? He 
who had pulled down houses and barns to build greater, and who 
had nothing to put into them, could he afford to go out ot his way 
and spend money thus? But they had all been kept totally in the 
dark as to Harry 'b money matters. They had no idea how much he 
had wasted— how much had gone to Gilbert Allenders, and to the 


182 


HARRY MUIR. 


pleasures shared by him; but a momentary review of the past year 
startled them all. They looked in each other’s scared faces, and 
shook their heads in sudden clear-sightedness, as Agnes asked the 
question, and the truth dinvned upon them all. 

“ JSfa, na, lad; Allenders has plenty siller bye Ihe land, ye may 
take my word for it,” said the slow voice of Geordie Paxton, 
speaking out of the hay-lield at the end of the mall, opposite to 
Rose’s favorite oak. ” 1 spoke to kirn mysel’ about that grand new 
harrow, and an improvement o’ my ain in the plougli-graith, when 
he started farming, and he never boggled at it a minute, though 
they baith cost siller. Then he has a free hand kimseF, and keeps 
a plentiful house, and you’ll no tell me that a man like Allenders — 
a fine lad, but apt to gang ajee whiles like ither folk — doesna take a 
good purse to keep kimsel’ gaun, let alane the house and a’ thae 
braw leddies. And so 1 have reason in my ain mind, as guid as 
positive knowledge — which 1 could only have, it he telled me liim- 
seF, Rob — to say tha* Allenders has a guid income coming to him, 
iorbye the land; ten hunder a year— ay, twelve ye may ca’ it — 
would not do more than keep up that house.’ 

Agnes started in dismay, and instinctively put her hand in her 
pocket tor her little book; but, unfortunately, Agnes always forgot 
to put down her housekeeping in this little book, though she had 
bought it herself expressly for the purpose and it was not Agnes’s 
housekeeping that was called in question. 

“ Sir John’s man telled me,” said Geordie’s companion, with the 
deliberation of certainty, “ that Allenders was naething but a wait- 
ing clerk in an office afore he got the estate, and that he hasna a 
penny o’ his ain; the story is no mine, but 1 would like to hear wdia’ 
should ken if it wasna Sir John’s man?” 

“ I dinna believe a word o’t,” said Geordie. hastily. “ Wbuld 
Sir John keep that auld body of an uncle of mine useless about the 
house, do you think, and ffie him a’ his ain gait, and deed him, and 
feed him, for the auld family’s sake, and because he’s been a faith- 
ful servant? i trow no; and folk that live in glasshouses shouldna 
throw stanes. I reckon Sir John’s no fashed wi' ow^er inuckle siller 
kimsel.” 

“ That’s naething to the question,” returned his dogmatical op- 
ponent. after one or two sweeps of the scythe among the lragrant 
grass bore witness that they had resumed their work. ‘‘What. 1 
say is, ‘that Allenders has naething but the estate, and theie’ll be a 
'great smash some of thir days; ye can believe me or no, just as you 
like.” 

“ He has his faults, puid lad, but he’s young, and he 11 mend,” 
said Geordie; “ and you wadna ask me to believe that Allenders is 
clean mad, and out of his wits, which is just the same as saying 
that he lives at this rate, and has nae siller o’ his ain. ” 

The listeners withdrew in dismay and alarm. To Martha this 
gossip only confirmed many previous fears, hut to the others it came 
like a revelation. 

“ If we were ruined, Martha, what would Harry do?” said 
Agnes. “ We could work for ourselves, and I am sure 1 would 
never mind the change; but Harry — poor Harry, it w T ould break his 
heart. I thought there could be nothing harder to bear than last 


HARRY MUIR. 18o 

night, bat, Martha, I think it there is no good change, it will kill 
me.” 

“ It must not kill j t ou, Agnes,” said Martha, speaking very low. 
“ Bairns, hear me; you must let nothing kill you, nothing crush 
you, even in your inmost hearts, till God sends the messenger that 
will not be gainsaid; and God grant that he may be far off from 
you both. Now it is coming— maybe ruin, maybe destruction, cer- 
tain distress and anguish. It 1 could bear it all, you should never 
hear when it drew near; but it must come upon you both— upon 
you both, teuder, delicate things, that should be blessed with the 
dews ot your youth. But the end is coming which God knows; 
you must not pine, you must not weep, you must not waste your 
strength with mourning. Bairns, we have to wait, and be ready 
and strong, to meet it when it comes. This is what we have to 
do.” 

As Martha spoke, she held in her grasp the soft warm hands of 
Agnes and Rose. They looked up to her, one on either side, like 
children to a mother, with lilted eyes, wistful and eager. It was 
not necessary to answer, but thej r went back again to the house to- 
gether, with a straDge strain in their hearts, something like ihe bodi- 
ly strain which their eager beud toward Martha and anxious look 
up to her had produced. They were warned, prepared, ready for 
the evil; and they thought they had reached to the sublime sadness 
of patience, and would not fret or chafe over the daily griefs 
again, but rather would be strong for the end. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

“ Life will not flow as rivers flow, or seas; 

It is a flood, but made of raindrops; days. 

And hours, and moments— several, pitiless. ” 

But still the days, each with its daily burden, wore out the falter- 
ing strength, which tried to endure them calmly, and look toward 
the end— the end great and solemn, which would demand all their 
might when it came, was obscured with smaller miseries coming 
hour by hour, which called for less preparation, and were less easily 
endured. 

Secretly within herself, Agnes said again that this would kill her 
—secretly Rose murmured that her heart was like to bieak; and 
from the solemn calm of patience they descended into the burning 
lever of constant anxiety, of hourly jealous fear and watching; but 
Martha’s warning and the constant desire to see wiili their own eyes, 
and hear with their own eais, what Harry did and said, preserved 
them from the bodily maladies which might have attended this 
feverish strain ot heart and mind. They we»e one in their anxie- 
ties, their thoughts, their fears; yet none could trust the other to re- 
port for her what was every day’s state — none could afford to be ill, 
or take shelter in bed or chamber. Day by day they watched, and 
night by night kept vigils, taking only such sleep as nature com- 
pelled. 

Anri Harry, poor Harry! went on sinking, neglecting the love 
which in his real heart was dearer to him a hundred times, than all 


184 


HARRY MUIR. 


the objects lie pursued in his infatuation. Like a man on the smooth 
incline of some frightful downright slope, he seemed to lose all 
power after the first impetus was given,- and went sheer down with- 
out a pause or stay. Poor Harry! if lie was sullen sometimes, at 
other some there came to him bursts of exceeding tenderness, re- 
morseful and pathetic, as if bis better angel was weeping within 
him, over his ruin; but still he went down— clutching at the flowers 
which waved over the edge of the precipice, and darting down its 
rapid incline with their blossoms in his hand; but the downward 
progress was never stayed 

The next day after Sir John Dunlop’s unfortunate party, Harry, 
heated and defiant, took his builder with him to visit the cottages 
at Maidlin. Harry desired to see the finest plans, the best models, 
and to plant such an exotic English village as great lords make for 
playthings, on that part of Maidlin which bordered on his estate. 

“ Don’t mind uniformity — don’t take any pains to make it cor- 
respond with the other half,” said Harry, in excitement and anger. 
“ Let Sir John Dunlop have pigsties if he likes for Ms men. All 
I care about is my share, and you must spare no pains on that.” 

“ But the expense, Allenders?” said the builder, with perplexity 
and disconcertment, ” it’s sure to take a heap of money.” 

“ Never mind the money,” said Harry loftily, ” that is my con- 
cern— yours is to make a handsome village on this side of the Cross, 
and the other houses can be pulled down afterward; let me have 
plans and estimates as soon as they can be pr< pared, and see that 
you are not content with inferior models. Let Sir John Iook to his 
own; 1 have nothing to do with that.” 

‘‘Very well, Allenders,” said ihe man doubtfully, “ very well; 
I’ll see about the plans, and it ye’re pleased, and no scared wi’ the 
expense, we may soon win to — but it’ll take a lot of siller.” 

Young Mr. Dunlop passed on horseback along the high way as 
the man spoke The stiffest and most formal salutations passed be- 
tween him and Harry. Henceforth it was evident that there was 
no more friendship to be looked for there. The builder went home 
much perplexed, and had his plans prepared only very deliberately. 
He could not believe that so small an estate as Allenders could 
afford such an expensive whim as this. 

And Armstrong shook bis head over the fields, bearing still a 
scanty insufficient crop, and honestly deplored and lamented the 
daily visits which Harry paid to his lodger, Gilbert Allenders. Gil- 
bert had scarcely the shadow of an excuse, in the way of medical 
practice for his residence here; and the universal prejudice which 
accused him of ” leading away ” the unfortunate }oung man of 
whom everybody was inclined to think well, was not without its 
foundation. But Harry— poor Harry! he was always “ led away ” 
—and it was so easy to find a tempter. 

A life of coarse dissipation had become, by long practice, the nat- 
ural breath of Gilbert Allendeis; he could not live soberly and 
quietly as other men did; he felt it necessary to fill every day as it 
came with its proportion of excitements and pleasures, as lie called 
them; and in a sense very widely apart from the commanded one, 
he took no thought for the morrow. It pleased him, in some degree] 
to ” lead ” Harry “ away;” he felt a certain gratification in pos- 


HARRY MUIR. 


185 


sessing the power; but though there might lurk at the bottom of 
his heart a secret grudge against the stranger who had d'spossessed 
him of the inheritance he ouce reckoned upon, and a secret pleasure 
in thus avenging himself, it lay far down in the depths, and Gilbert 
was totally unconscious of its existence. He rather liked Harry ou 
the contrary — liked his society, his wit, and felt his participation in 
them impart a keener zest to his own recreations. For Gilbert was 
not a villain, nor ever pursued revenge with purpose or malice; he 
was only a man of evil habits and impure mind, who felt the burden 
of his own faults lightened when he could make others partakers iu 
them. And only so far was it true that he led Harry away. 

The harvest came with its sudden increase of laborers, and Rocks 
of shearers crowded into Harry’s fields; but the poor Highland wan- 
derers and far-traveled Irish lingered about the farm-steading of 
Allender Mains, and lost days that might have been profitable to 
them, waiting tor the wages which Harry did not know were due. 

The loyous autumn began to w 7 ane, and Harry s thrashing-mill 
began to work, throwing out its banner of blue smoke above the 
trees But Harry’s hopes came to no harvest — the loug-neglected 
land still bore scantily— the slender crops did not pay nor nearly 
pay for their culture. Not even William Hunter’s rent came in 
now to give the embarrassed laird an income, and his second halt- 
yeariv payment of interest was due at Martinmas, with only enough 
remaining to pay it of Iris last thousand pounds; and no provision 
made for the whole long year which must intervene between this and 
another harvest — nothing to continue the cultivation which should 
make another harvest profitable, nothing to maintain the expensive 
household, which now in Allenders waited tor its fate; and Harry 
looked before him, and around, and muttered curses ou his own 
folly, and saw no way of deliverance. . 

He could not spring out of his ruin, he could do nothing to make 
himself free; but he could forget and drown it, and lie did so 

No kindly neighbors now entered the house ot Allenders. Good 
Lady Dunlop took stolen opportunities of alighting from her car- 
riage on the road, when her daughter was not with her, to comfort 
the poor little wife, over whom her motherly heart yearned; and 
the ladies of Nettlehaugh and Foggo Barns, made their salutations 
at Church, and eased their consciences. Agnes herself began to 
grow nervous, to start at sudden sounds, and be shaken by passing 
voices Her band trembled more than Harry’s did, sometimes and 
when he put away from him with loathing the simple wholesome 
1 food he could no longer take, Agnes grew so sick that she could Dot 
keep her seat. Her baby did not thrive— he scarcely could in a 
house wheie the one great absorbing interest engaged every thought, 
no one sung to him now, except Mvsie -scarcely any one had the 
heart to play with him— and the poor infant 

" —caught the trick of grief. 

And sighed among its playthings. 

Rose, with no resource of dreaming left to her tried to dull her 
heart with constant labor, and wandered out in the early 
while the uew was still on the grass, to sit by the Lad j s Well 
where Lettie, wistful and anxious, found her out often, and sat at 


HARRY MUIR. 


18G 

her feet in silence, touching her softly with little caressing hands, 
and wondering with pensive thoughts over the mystery which made 
Rose “ like to break her heart;” for Lettie knew that other griefs 
than the family fear for Harry, bore down upon the gentle spirit of 
her sister Rose. 

And when Harry was out, they drew together instinctively, and 
sat working in Martha’s room. And Martha roused herself, and 
with the ready associations and strange flow of simple words, 
which she thought were signs and tokens of approaching age, told 
them stories of actual life, homely, real histories, iu which there 
wa 3 always interest, and often consolation. She wondered herself 
at the clear memory which recalled to her those numberless tales of 
t ne neighbor tamilies in Ayr — stories of household affliction, some- 
times only too like their own — but still one continued to lead to an 
other; and Rose and Agnes worked beside her, and listened, and 
the tedium of the long, sad hours was beguiled. Yet, though she 
did all this to give some partial and temporary lightening to them, 
heavy as death within her was Martha’s own strained heart. 


CHAPTER XL1I. 

“ Two peaceful days. And what should hap in these. 

But things of common life? He will return 
As safe as he went hence.” 

Late in the end of October, when Katie Calder began to speaK 
of Hallowe’en, and to consult with Jeanie Armstrong at Alle'nder 
Mains, on the best place to pull the “ kailstocks,” and practice the 
other spells proper to the occasion, Harry told his anxious house- 
hold that he was going to Edinburgh. They observed that he was 
gloomy and depressed tor some days before, though lie had been 
less than usual from home. Now he told them vaguely about 
money which was wanted, and expenses which had been incurred, 
and that his errand to Edinburgh was on business very important 
to him. TV ben Martha and Agnes pressed for more definite infor- 
mation, Harry fell back upon liis morose and gloomy silence. It 
was useless to make inquires, for many a thing must have been 
told, if Harry bad begun to satisfy them, which be would never 
suffer to reach their ears. 

And no one went with him to Stirling this time to see him off. 
When even Gilbert Allenuers proposed to go, Harry answered him 
with an instant and not veyy courteous negative, and Agnes’s wist- 
ful looks passed quite unnoticed. He rode away, silently, too much 
abstracted as it seemed, to turn back and wave his hand to his 
wife and bis sisters at their windows, as he was wont to do; but 
when lie was past the gate and almost out of sight upon the road- 
out of sight entirely to eyes less eager— they saw him start and turn 
round, and wave back lo them the usual gesture of farewell. Agnes 
thrust herself halt out of the window of the drawing-room to re- 
turn it, with tears in her eyes; and then she saw his head droop 
again upon his breast, and he rode away. 

On the third night after, he had instructed them to send John 
with liis horse to meet him iu Stirling. He expected to arrive there 


HARRY MUIR. 


187 


at four or five in the afternoon, and to be home immediately after. 
■With the most zealous care, Agnes recorded all Harry’s dilections, 
and impressed them on the mind ot John when he returned. He 
had seen liis master safely off upon the coach, and so tar all was 

well. _ 4t . . 

The third night following was Hallowe’en, and even Let tie, ab- 
sorbed with the expectation ot entertaining her little sentimental 
friend from Blaelodge, and one or two other children, with the 
appropriate pastimes of the night, forgot that Harry was coming 
home. But punctually to the hour, John and the horse trotted out 
from the gate of Allenders, followed by the wistful eyes of Agnes. 
Agnes longed to send the carriage; but such was not Harry s will, 
ami in his present mood she could not contradict him. 

Great fires biazed in the two family sitting-rooms, for the night 
was damp and cold, and needed this cheerful gleam to brighten it 
for the traveler. Some special delicacies for Harry’s dinner were 
being superintended in the kitchen by Agnes herself, and the glit- 
tering tea-service sparkled already before the drawing-room fire, 
while Rose saw that Harry’s own room grew bright and warm with 
firelight, and that everything he needed lay ready lor his comfort. 
The early nmht tell when they were Ihus employed; but when 
everything was done that could be thought ot, and preparations 
made as great as if he had been a year away, they sat down in the 
twilight, crowding about the window, and looking out from the 
warm flush of light within upon the uncertain gray which lay upon 

the sky and hills. , . 

But the gray tints vanished, and the full gloom of night blotted 
out the landscape — blotted out even the gate and its trees— the very 
walnut on the lawn— and palpable blackness pressed upon the win- 
dow, and upon the eyes which still looked steadily out on this 
comprest, uncreviced gloom —and Harry did not come. 

They would not light candles to remind them that he was late 
they would not hear the clock strike hour by hour Sometimes 
with faint smiles they spoke to each other of the childish mirth 
whose sounds they could hear ascending from below, but oftenest 
they were emirely silent, except for a whispered Listen! 1 hear 
he horse on the road,” or ” This is Harry now;’ but it never was 
Harrv. And tlie sound of horses’s hoofs seemed to echo perpetu- 
ally through the stailess solemn night. And midnight came, and 
still they watched— now in a very agony. . 

At last they heard the sound ot the opened gate, and a single 

horseman became lowly perceptible approaching through the gloom. 
Throwing down the chair she had been seated on, in haste and ex- 
crement* Agnes ran down-stairs, and Martha and Rose, putting 
restraint* upon themselves, followed a little more slowly. But they 
lmd not reached the hall when they heard the voice of John, ieport- 
ing how A1 lenders had sent him on before to tell them -hat the 
coach had been detained much beyond its time, and that he himself 
was on the road, and would be immediately at home. 

poor little Agnes turned from the door, ai d hiding her face in 
Martha’s breast wept quietly tears of deterred hope. Aud Rose 
went forward to’ the door in the darkness, anxious if it were possi- 
ble to hear something of Harry’s looks from dohn. 


188 


HARRY MUIR. 


“ AVas my brotlier much wearied?” said Rose timidly. “ The 
road is very dark. 1 am sorry you left him, John— he does not 
know the way so well as you.” 

“ Allenders was ver}' llioughtful-like,” said John, with a quick 
apprehension of what she meant; “ and 1 ken the coach was lang 
after its time; but 1 dinna think Allenders was wearied, to speak 
o’. And he guides the horse bttter than ony ither body now, and 
he was very anxious to be liame.” 

She could not ask, nor be told more, and they went back to their 
window to watch again; while Rose, begging to be told whenever 
they heard Harry, had the fires hastily renewed, herself assisting 
sleepy Mysie, who, though she nodded by the kitchen fire, would 
not go to bed, and leave them watching alone. 


CHAPTER XL111. 

There’s a dark spirit walking in our house, 

And swiftly will the destiny close on us. 

Schiller. 

It was nearly twelve o’clock when the Edinburgh coach reached 
Stirling, carrying Harry, much subdued and cast down, but in 
reality this time detained by obstacles over which he had no con- 
trol. During all this journey he had been contemplating the grim 
strength of ruin face to face — feeling himself now utterly beyond 
help or hope, able to do nothing but sit down and wait for the 
final blow. The place at which he had appointed his servaut to 
meet him was some distance from the coach-office; and taking his 
little valise in his hand, Harry walked with a heavy, w r eary step, 
much unlike his usual elastic one, to find John. 

The streets were still and deserted, the shops shut, the lights extin- 
guished in almost every house he passed. The very public-house, 
inns, and lower places of the same kind had put out all but one 
solitary lamp, which, just enough to light those who were within, 
looked dreary and melancholy to everybody without. Harry went 
along the street feeling himself an utter stranger here This was 
paitly true; for the friends he had made were of a very unpromis- 
ing kind, and, themseives broken men for the most part, could 
render little comfort to a man at the point of ruin; but partly it 
was the mere desolation of the silent street, echoing to his footstep, 
which impressed the sensitive mind of Harry. He went along 
with his valise under his arm, and his pale face drooping — a face 
marked with lines of altogether new rigidity, and full of a silent 
forlorn dspair, which it was touching to see in one so young, and 
naturally so hopeful. He could not tell what chill it was that 
overpowered his heart — ruin — a descent from nis rank* and his in- 
heritance— a return characterless, and with many a new habit of 
evil, to the occupation in whicn once before he had failed— worse 
limn all, the remembrance of his sins, which returned to look him 
in (lie face like upbraiding spirits. Yet even this was not all: a 
vague dreaa, a shivering, mysterious presentiment of some un- 
known evil to come, hovered over these real griefs, and gave them 
shape and form, in a torpor of despair. 




HARRY MUIR. 


189 


He set oat upon the road with his servant at a rapid pace; but in 
spite of himself, the tramp ot John’s horse, continually taking the 
course ot his own behind, irritated him almost beyond endurance. 
He suffered it as long as he could, feeling his irritation a weakness; 
but at last yielded to the overpowering sense of annoyance which 
this trifling matter occasioned him, and sent his man on, following 
himself more slowly. 

The night was very dark — dark as it is only in a perfectly ruial 
country; and as the ringing silence closed about him, and he heard 
nothing but an occasional sigh from the river, or a faint flutter 
among the falling leaves, or the sound of his own progress upon 
the solitary road, Harry’s thoughts strayed away from his great 
miseries. Once or twice, a leaf in its descent blew across his face, 
and made his horse wince, and his heart beat— and then, there re- 
turned upon Harry his vague and inexpressible tear; but shut out 
from every sight , as he was, by this utter darkness, there rose up 
scenes of cheerful light before bis imagination, beautiful to see: 
Uncle Sandy’s house at Ayr— the little parlor iu Glasgow— the borne 
in Allenders to which be was returning. A strange, dreamy pleas- 
ure stole over him —be forgot bis sins, his misfortunes, his near and 
inevitable ruin — he thought of the home enjoyments which no man 
had known more largely— he thought of his* little loving wife— of 
the passionate aftecticn of Martha— ot Rose’s gentler tenderness, 
and strange lit le poetic Lettie, with her wistful eyes. Poor Harry! 
his heart swelled with suddeu relief as these came (o his imagina- 
tion: tittle domestic remembrances, looks, words, innocent mistakes 
and blunders, things which long ago brought pleasant, kindly 
laughter, or tender tears to the faces of them all. The reins fell 
loosely on his horse’s neck as he resigned himself to this repose; 
and the cottage firesides at Maidlin, and the boyish companions 
of Ayr, looked in, and interwove themselves with those fancies of 
home. Sometimes he tried to rouse himself, and a sharp pain shot 
through his heart as for a moment he remembered his real state 
and prospects; but still this singular dream returned upon him, and 
in liis heart he thanked God! 

Meanwhile, in Allenders they sit and watch, looking out with 
dread and sickening pain into the darkness, praying till tlieir hearts 
are again “like to break.’’ Sometimes Agnes kneels down by a 
chair, and hides her face, and utters a low unconscious cry; some- 
times Martha walks heavily up or down the room, pausing in the 
midst, to think she hears in reality the sound which has mocked 
them in imagination all the night. “ 1 am going to my own room 
—do not come to me,” said Martha, at last, iu a half-whisper, and 
she left them without anolher word. 

But not to her own chamber to weep or pray, as they thought; 
Mysie nodding by the kitchen fire was suddenly startled by Mar- 
tha’s appearance, with a rigid white face like desth, and a cloak 
enveloping her whole person. With a slight scream, the drowsy 
girl started to her test, scarcely knowing if she saw a human being 
or a spirit. 

“ Mysie, you are bold,” said Martha, with such distinct rapidity 
that her words seemed to occupy no time. “ 1 want the carriage 


190 


HARRY MUIR. 


instantly. 1 am going to seek my brother. Come, and show me 
what has to be done.” 

“ I’ll waken John,” said the terrified Mysie. 

“ i do not require John. What is to be done, 1 can do myself. 
Give me a light. ” 

But Mysie, who was in reality a brave girl, and could manage 
horses as easily as she managed the brown cow, and who besides 
doted on little Harry and the baby, and would not have hesitated at 
even a greater thing for their father, answered by lifting John’s 
lantern; and catching down a plaid which liung on the wall as they 
passed, she led the way to the stables without another word. 

It. was a strange scene: Mysie excited, and still lialt-dreaming, 
forced the unwilling horse between the shafts; and Martha like a 
marble statue, with hands which never trembled nor hesitated, se- 
cure 1 the fastenings in perfect, silence. John could not have done 
this daily business of his in half the time which it took these women 
to lead the catriage softly out of the stables round by a lane behind 
the house into the highway. They liaa no time to seek for the 
lamps to light them, so Martha carried the lantern in her hand, and 
held it up into the darkness as they advanced, while Mysie drove 
on steadily toward Stirling. 

They had not gone a mile, Martha continually lifting her lantern 
and gazing into the gloom, when they heard that some one on a gal- 
loping horse approached them. Martha rose to her feet, and held 
up the light. It seemed to scare the animal, who suddenly paused, 
with reins dangling on his neck and foam upon his breast; but he 
was riderless. ‘‘ It’s Allenders’s ain horse,” said Mysie, in a strong 
hissing whisper through her closed teeth, as she touched the bay in 
the carriage with her whip, and with a leap they proceeded. But 
Martha desperately caught at the reins of the other horse, and 
grasped them— she could not, even in her agony tor Harry, bear to 
think that her other children should receive such a dreadful shock 
as this, wdiile she was not with them to strengthen them. And the 
exhausted animal went on quietly for a iitile time — then he began 
to plunge and rear, and turn toward home. “ Let him go— let him 
go,” again whispered Mysie, now desperate with anxiety and fright. 
“ You can na get lookit at the road-side for hauding him — let him 
go.” 

And Martha did let him go. 

Hot twenty yards further on, their horse suddenly came to a dead 
pause— and there, lying across the high-way, was a dark figure, with 
a battered hat by its side, and the face gleaming gbastlv in the light 
of Martha’s lantern. She was bending over him before Mys'ie’s 
first gasp of terror gave her breath; and Martha’s white lips were 
calling upon God, upon God— but no sound came from them upon 
the heavy darkness. 

And the heart beats faintly still in Harry’s breast, and the blood 
oozes slowly from the cut upon his biow. She feels it warm upon 
her hands— this is how she knows it to be blood— as she lifts his 
death-like face upon her knee; and still as her hand presses upon 
his heart, and she bends her cheek to his lips to feel if he still 
breathes, Martha calls upon the name of the Lord. The name— she 
can say nothing but the name— but in it is all prayer. 


HARRY MUIR. 


191 

And now she lifts him up into her own arms, up to the fierce 
heart which has throbbed with passionate love for him all his life 
Mysie humbly and with terror asks to help her ; but Martha, rising 
from her Knee with all her burden in her Mims, thrusts away un- 
consciously the trembling aid, and places him— her boy. her son, 
poor Harry!— in the carriage like a child. Then through the gloom 
which no longer needs a light, through the horror of darkness which 
lies over them like a cloak of iron, pressing down upon their very 
hearts and hiding the face upon which Martha’s eyes are fixed con- 
tinually, though she can only feel it where it lies upon her knee — 
through this night of solemn gloom and terror, which is the end- 
home! 

And now, Harry’s horse neighs and craves admittance at his 
stable-door; and John, roused out of ihe sleep from which Mysie 
had promised to wake him on his master’s return, starts up terri- 
fied, and can not finJ his lantern nor the key which Martha’s trem- 
bling helper has left in the stable-door ; and Rose and Agnes rush 
together, in terror which has no voice, to seek Martha in her room, 
and finding her gone, flee out into the impenetrable darkness and 
call to John tor the lamps he can not find, and carry uncovered can- 
dles— which, in the damp air, will not burn— to the gate, with a 
teriible apprehension of stumbling over Harry in their path; but, 
still, accident — any but the slightest — does not cross their distracted 
minds, and they never once think Qf death! 

Yet anguish and terrible dread come upon them as they struggle 
on along The dark way, groping for they know not what, while the 
darkness blinds their eyes and chokes their very bieatb. But far 
on — far along the road, where there is a litile eminence, half a mile 
away, appears a faint, slowly moving light Instinctively drawing 
closer together, they stand, and listen, and watch this speck in the 
intense gloom. And Agnes does not know that her incoherent 
prayers are said aloud; noi doe8 Rose, though she remembers words 
of them after, like the broken wolds of a dream. 

But the light comes nearer; and John, who has turned his mas- 
ter s horse into the stable, and given him water, comes back, to 
grope his way to his young mistress on the road, and stand beside 
her, walching the slow motion of this distant light. Defenseless 
and open stands the liouse of Allenders, where children lie asleep, 
serene and peaceful, worn out with pleasure; and not even the 
watchers at the gate, amid all their terror and apprehension, have 
any idea what it is, which comes toward them through the night. 

Wliat is it? Mysie, hearing some far-off whisper of voices, holds 
up her lantern, unwitting that the chief light it throws is upon those 
tw T o behind. Martha, sitting rigid in the carriage, with a face of 
deadly whiteness on her knee, and her hand pressing upon the heart 
of tne passive, insensible form— pressmg against it. as if the trail 
life needed to be held fast, lest it should glide away. A shrill cry 
startles the darkness at their side, and Martha only knows they 
have reached the gate of Allenders, when she hears Harry’s little 
gentle wife fall heavily upon the ground, and is startled by the cry 
of Rose. 

Mysie, frightened and exhausted, stopped the carriage. “ Drive 
on!” said Martha, and her lips spoke the words half a dozen times 


192 


HARRY' MIFTR. 


before they broke, shrill and loud, upon Mysie’s terrified ear, 
“ Rose, be calm. .John, carry Agnes in. 1, myself, will care tor 
Harry; he is alive.” 

Alive!— but that was all! 

Candles stood wasting on the hall table, and the cold black air 
stole in heavily, damp and chill. Upon the stairs, a tittle white 
figure called on Martha and Rose, and shivered, and cast looks of 
terror on the open door. For Violet hart been dreaming of Harry 
— dreaming terrible dreams — and she could no 1 rest. 

“ Let me carry him. I’m stronger than you, and l’Ji be as ten- 
der as a woman,” pleaded the awe-stricken Jobu. 

But Martha pushed him aside. “ A doctor — a doctor instantly!” 

It was all she could say, as she lifted up her burden. 

It was well for Martha that her frame was strong, and hardly 
strung; for Mysie, who silently assisted, and supported poor Harry’s 
feet, left still the great weight of his insensible form in Martha’s 
arms; and Martha felt the strain when it was over — she knew noth- 
ing of it now. , 

Alas, pool Harry!— they laid him on his bed; they clustered 
round him, the faces which he had seen in nis imagination two lit- 
tle hours ago, so fresh and bright. In this room, where the fire 
was faintly dying, were arranged many little things which Rose 
had faucied he might want when he came home; but there he lay, 
with the blood upon his brow, unconscious, silent, with nothing 
hut his heavy breathing to tell them that he was alive. 

And immediately they heard the desperate gallop at which John 
set oft, to bring the doctor. The doctor— not Gilbert A1 lenders, 
but a respectable surg on in the neighborhood: returned with him 
without delay; and John took especial pains to inform him on the 
road, that Allenders was ” as muckle hiinsel’ as I am,” when they 
parted. 

Poor Harry’s leg was broken again; he had sustained some severe 
internal injuries, and was terribly bruised over his whole frame. 
The surgeon remained ah the night, and did everytning it was pos- 
sible to do, dispatching John to Stirling for assistance before the 
dawn. But when the gray still morning began to steal into the 
room, and Harry, faintly conscious, lay moaning on his bed, Agnes 
clasped her hands in sorrowful entreaty; and lifting up her pathetic 
eyes to the doctor’s face, asked it there was any hope. 

When she asked, she had scarcely any doubt there was. Danger, 
suffering, even positive agonies of endurance were before him, she 
saw; but Harry’s wife did not think he could die. 

“ W r e have always hope so long as there is life,” said the doctor, 
turning his head away. 

And Agnes gasped and tell again. It was the warrant of death. 

” Will he die?” said Martha, crushing her hands together as she 
too looked, but with eyes that demanded an answer, in the doctor’s 
face. 

He waved Ids hand, and again turned away. The good man saw 
the mighty love which would detain and hold this parting soul, 
and he could not meet its despair. 

“ Harry w'ill die!”— no one said it; no one spoke those terrible 
words of doom; but it seemed to them all that the air was heavy 


HARRY MUIR. 


193 

svith the sentence: and from Martha, who never wearied and never 
closed tier eyes, ministei ing by li is bedside within, to little Lettie 
crouching; close to his door, and pra\ in# that God would take her 
— on!}' take her, and save “ my Harry;” there was uot one among 
them who did not carry in their very face this great and terrible 
doom. 

Wiping the deadly dews from Ins brow, administering to him 
the almost hourly opiates, which no hand in the house, except her 
own, not even tne surgeon’s, was steady enough to prepare, Martha 
watched bv him night anti d y. Harrv was seldom conscious, sel- 
dom able to recognize, or address his nurse; but in Ins broken rav- 
ings were things that touch* d her to the heart; tilings < f the pure 
y o ufli — the household life; nothing--tliey all thanked God tor the 
especial mercy —nothing mingling with these innocent remem- 
brances, of his times of secret sin. 


CHAPTER XL1V. 

“ Fond dreaming hearts!— an old man and a child 1” 

“ Miss Lettie, the auld man’s ta’en an ill turn. He cries for 
you to gang and lell him how the maister is — will ye gang to the 
loft and speak to the auld man. Miss Lettie?” 

Violet left her place at Harry’s door, and went. 

Old Adam laj’ upon his bed in his ordinary dress, with his long, 
brown lean fingers lying crossed upon the homely cover, as if tiny 
were clutching it — but in reality they grasped nothing. A feeble 
tremble was in his frame as he lay vacantly looking up to the ratt- 
ers above him; aud his ashy face, though il was indeed scarce iv 
paler than usual, struck Violet with terror, as if it had been the 
very face of death. 

“ Oh Dragon, my Harry!” cried poor little Lettie. 

“ They ted me the horse had thrown him, and dragged him alang 
the road vvi’ ae fit aye t lie stirrup — was that true, missie? and I aye 
kent rnysei’ it was a thrawart beast, and no to be depended on.” said 
Dragon. ** I've been lying here thinking on the puir lad, this haul 
morning; and l was just putting it ower in my mind if il wadna be 
best to crave the Lord to lake me, and spare the young life; but I 
never can win that lengtii though 1 try— dot I aye mind I'm a harm- 
less auld body, doing ill to uae man, and what for should i ask to 
die?” 

“ Would God do that, Dragon? Would God lake somebody else, 
and leave Harry? Oil! will ye a-k Hun to take me?” cried Harry’s 
little sister, tor lie’s very ill, and Martha thinks he will die. Drag- 
on, if God would take you and me, and save Harry, would you no 
come? and G»>d would aye let us see the sun shining on the water, 
and a’ b< dy blithe in Allenders — Dragon, if we were in heaven!” 

And Violet’s passionate cry, and voice choked with sobbing, 
again awoke the old man’s toipid heart. He raised himself from 
li s bed feebly, and leauiug on his elbow, looked at the little figure 
kneeling by his bedside with its clasped hands, and gleaming eyes 
— and Adam Comrie slowly shook Ids head. 



194 


HARRY MUIR. 


“ Missie, I’m auld— 1 whiles foiget things 1 ken weel, and speatr 
as if L was a bairn mysel’; but ae life cauna redeem anilher, linlet 
bairn. JNa, na, 1 wad gaug vvi’ ye blithe, puir wee innocent heart, 
to lake care of ye — if God didna send an angel to take care of us 
bait li — ” said the old man, with a momentary wandering, ' but 
there never was but Ane, that could redeem lives out of God’s hand 
with His ain. We’re a’ forfeit ourselves, bairuie; if my life was 
mine, and your’s your ain, we might offer them for Mr. Hairy; but 
God has your bit heartie in 11 is hand, as well as mine, and will lay 7- 
them quiet when it is His pleasure, and no a day before. There 
was Ane that had His life tree to lay down, and free to take up — 
and there was but Ane. I’ve had glimmerings o’ Him mysel’,” con- 
tinued Dragon, fixing his unsteady eyes on the root, and wandering, 
from the first subjtct into the more immediate personal interest 
wli ch li is own words recalled to him, “ glimmerings like blinks of 
the sun out of clouds: but if I whiles lo«e mind of the Lord— for I’m. 
auld and feeble, and sae lang ia Ibis w r orld that it’s ill to believe I 
have to gang away — if 1 whiles lose mind, that am but a puir use- 
less creature, is that to say that He loses mind o' me? as if lie didna 
ken what was the guid reason, wherefore 1 wasna taken hence in 
ray strength, hut left to wear out my (Jays like a sleep, and to for- 
get 1 Ane might think the like o’ me, sae aged and frail, had been 
forgotten out of the course of nature, and left because He didna- - 
mind — but never you trow that, bairnie- I ken He minds, and 
when it’s my time, He’ll send lor me, a« thoughtful °s if 1 was the 
grandest man <>n this earth. What’s about my memory, though it 
whiles can carry naething but bairnly things? Is that to rule His, 
think ye, that grows not auld forever? And 1 ken He never for- 
gets.” 

Absoibed and full of awe, Violet followed unconsciously the half- 
palsied wave of the old man’s head and figure as he spoke, and 
watched the unusual gleam which shot from the eyes, which he in 
vain tried to fix on the rafter. Po<*r, dim, unsteady eyes! they 
glanced about in every direction, as if they possessed some distinct 
energy and will of their own. 

Tint when Adam sunk back on his pillow, Lettie shivered and 
thought she had forgotten Harry— poor Harry! She could still hear 
his moan in her ears. 

“ Oh, my Harry, my Harry! Dragon, do ye think God will 
take him up— up— yonder beside Him?” and Lettie turned her eyes 
full of dark wisiful reverence and fear upon the old man’s face. 

Wail God take you, and me, think ye, to save him?” said Drag- 
on, now wandering back iDto a mild half-delirious waking sleep, 

“ but then we’re forfeit -forfeit— and there was but Ane. I’m con- 
tent to gang, bairnie, content to gang— where’s your hand? and I 
dinna ken how we maun travel, but the angel will tell us- when he 
comes; and I’ll take care o’ y r e a’ the way, for we’re no to expect 
the angel, that’s a stranger, to take heed to a’ a little bairn’s wants 
like the like o’ me. Ye can say I’ve got the better o’ mysel’, and 
I’m willing to gang.” 

But Lettie, excited and terrified, dared not say aloud the strange- 
prayer, ‘‘Take Dragon and me, and save Harry,” which was in 
her heart. 


HARRY MUIR. 


195 


And Dragon’s feeble band tightened on hers, till Lettie looking 
lip in flight aud sudden fear, saw that bis bead bail fallen back, 
and that an ashy paleuess like that ot his face was creeping over 
the rigid fingers which grasped her own. But Dragon’s loud and 
heavy biautt ing showed her that this ' as not death. La ttie with- 
drew ht-r baud with pain and difficulty from bis grasp, and ran to 
oali assistance. She pressed her finger on her own pulse, as she fol- 
lowed Mysie and the doctor back again to the obi man’s bedside, 
and a strange cold thrill ot tear and *xpectation shot through her 
frame. Poor little visionary Lettie! Site thought her prayer was 
beard — she thought the angel bad called Dragon, and it became her 
to be ready now. 

But Let lie’s shivering hope was vain A slight, almost momentary 
‘ '■li >ek ” bad come upon the old man, but it passed a wav. It 
passed nwaj — nature began to warm again in the withered worn out 
frame, and Leitie’s pulse beat true and steady, with a young life 
whose delicate strength should yet bear many things — while hour 
by hour the tide “f strong manhood ebbed, and Harry, poor llarry 
drew nearer to bis graved 

CHAPTER XLY. 

And Love himself, as he were armed in steel, 

Steps forth, and girds him for tne strife with death. 

PrCCOLOMINI. 

The doctors were in almost constant attendance — the minister of 
the parish came to pray by the bedside ot ibe half conscious patient, 
whose lieaty moans Droke in upon his supplication. The children 
ot Maidlin awe-stricken and full of wonder and curiosity, hung 
about the gate ot A Headers, telling each other bow Harry fell, and 
bow the trail was found on the road, where his horse bad dragged 
him along the damp, loose soil. And their mothers came in bauds 
in the early utfernoon to speak ot it with kindred awe and mystery, 
.And stealing round by the back of the bouse, beckoned Mysie out 
to learn from her how t lie sufferer was. More dignified people, and 
even Sir John Dunlop himself, sent messengers to inquire for poor 
Harry, and Giibeit Allenders, like an ill-omened shadow, contin- 
ually hovered about the door. 

Poor Harry! they never spoke to each other, these women who 
watched him; but Agnes and Rose perceived when they approached 
the bed that it was onfy a strong self-restraint which prevented Martha 
from tbi usting them away. She was jealous now, even of them — 
she could not bear to see him touched by any hand but her own— as 
if it was her hand alone which could touch him without inflicting 
pain: and they saw her shiver when the surgeon drew near him, as 
if with bodily fear. And sometimes, when Martha laid Agnes 
down upon the sofa in this sad sick room, and covered her tenderly 
as if she were a child, an hour of feverish sleep would fall upon 
the little wife; and Rose, when sent to her own room tor the night, 
after lingering at ilie door, and wandering up and down to see if 
Anything could possibly be wanted which was not ready, would 
weep herself into a trance of slumber, from which the awakening 
was bitter— but Martha never slept. 


HAHRY MUIR. 


196 

And Harry lay upon his bed, unconscious, nnd never said a word 
which testified that he knew them there. Conscious of pain— con- 
scious of the agony of being touched or moved, which drew from 
him those shrill cries and heavy moanings— and with dim, dreamy 
eyes, which seemed to recognize sometimes where it was lie lay, as 
they wandered over the well-known furniture; but though lie spoke 
of them all in his times of greater ease, and addressed them by lov- 
ing names, which brought a swooning deadly sickness over A trues, 
and convulsed Martha with a teirible tmderness, he never spoke to 
them as pnsent beside him; wander u<r, broken lines of thought, 
^.fetr : nge visible associations which connected one distant thing wit fi 
another, came from him in an interrupted fl >w — aud sometimes 
strange halt-dreaming prayers, exclaimed vehemently at one time, 
at another repeated with a placid smile like a child’s — “ Lead us not 
into temptation— deliver, us from evil,” made up the prolonged and 
audible reve.ie of Harry’s stricken soul. 

On the morning of the third day, while Martha sat beside him on 
one side, and Agnes, with her face buiied in the covtrlet. knelt by 
tlie bed, silently praying and weeping, on the other, a gradual 
awakening came 1o Hairy’s face. Martha, whose look never left it, 
saw T the dreamy eyes light up, at first faintly, but gradually rising 
into life. Then he saw Agnes, and stealing his feeble hand aiong 
the bed, laid it on her head. She started up with a taint cr} T , and 
Harry’s trance was broken. 

“ Am 1 to die?” he said, in a whisper, when for some moments 
they had held his hands in silence— his hands, one of which was 
bathed in llm tears of Agnes, while on the other had fallen a single 
great burning drop, falling from Martha’s heavy eyelid, like a diop 
of living file. 

But do answer came to him, except the convulsive sobs of Agnes, 
and a tightened and clinging pressure of the hand which lay in 
Martha’s grasp. 

44 Then let me see them, Martha,” said Harry faintly; ‘‘let me 
see them all nnce again, jfou will be better without me, and i will 
be better away. Oh God! my God! 1 have lost a life.” - 

‘‘ But not a so il, Harry — not a soul,” cried Martha, bending 
down her head, to kiss with burning vehemence t lie hand on which 
her tears fell now like hail-drops. 41 First look up, Harry, my son! 
my son! and there is another life!” 

And the dim eyes turned upward to the roof — to the human mor- 
tal screen built between him and the sky: and saw, not the heavens 
opened, and Jesus standing at the right hand ot God. but only a 
household of weeping women, half frantic with love and eagerness, 
crying aloud for him before t he everlasting throne, where xneicy 
sits and judgment; and a blank numbness was t>n Harry’s soul. 
He could not throw hirn-elf before this footstool, and ask with his 
last breath lor that deliverance which conies from Him who never 
thrust one empty away. Sleep was upon him, and he craved re- 
pose; he trusted to them who interceded — he leaned with taint con- 
sciousness upon their supplications; but for himself he could ask 
nothing— his heart was voiceless, apathetic, asleep. 

44 Prav for me, Martha,” said Harry, faintly. 

For this was all his hope. 


HARRY MUIR. 197 

Pray for him! ’When was it, woiking or resting, that Martha for- 
got thus to ptay? 

“ Ami gather them all,” said Harry — “ gather them all in here, 
that I may see them before I die.” 

He said the words with a faint, mournful pathos. He was not 
rebellious to his doom — poor Harry! but it seemed to him that lie 
was sinkiug into some pensive, gentle rest. This was how the visi- 
ble death, drawing near, disclosed itself, in the midst of his great 
pain, to his heart. 

And Martha called them in, one by one— Rose, Leftie, Katie Cal- 
der, little Harry, and the infant boy. You would have thought, to 
hear him speak, that this dying man was passing away into the 
heaveu which he already knew for home, and that there interpcsed 
no obscuring cloud between him and the sky; or that this sulT< ling 
of death consciously made up tor all the evil that had gone bet oie 
— formi'her renorse nor terror overshadowed Hariv, nor ciid lie 
speak of faith. Poor Harry 1 this benumbed and quiet peace seemed 
all be desired. 

And when he had bidden them farewell, gently, faintly, without 
any violence of emotion — witli a perfect calm and submission, and 
what people call resignation to the will of God — Harry laid himself 
down again to die. 

But his head had scarcely fallen back again upon the pillow, when 
he started violently— a start which wrung from him a half scream 

of pain. 

“Send for Lindsay. Martha!— send for Robertson, in Stulingj 
Any one — any one you can get most easily! — at once, before i die!” 

‘Without hesitation, Martha went to obey his older; and John, 
who was swift and ready, was in the saddle in a very few minutes, 
galloping to Stirling for a lawyer. 

But when Maltha returned to the sick chamber, Harry had re- 
lapsed into unconsciousness, and she sat down, watching by him 
silently, as she had clone before. Within a few hours tns lawyer 
came. 1 he whole country rang with the news of the accident, and 
people foigot how they had condemned poor Allenders, in pity tor 
him, and for the family, whose singular devotion to- him it needed 
little discernment to discover. So Mr. Robertson had left his house 
at once, to his own inconvenience, to come to the dying man. But 
Harry lay upon his bed, communing aloud with bis own heart; and 
the very lawyer turned aside and w'ept, as he heard tins Ik art laid 
open. A sinful man had Harry been!— shipwrecked and lost! Yet 
it was a child’s heart! 

Aud Martha’s words, or an influence more wonderful than them, 
was breathing on the chaos of this disturbed and wandering soul. 
Poor Harry! And his lips spoke aloud the texts and psalms which 
he had learned, a child, at Martha’s knee. In the room there was a 
hush like death, through which now and then the restrained sob of 
Agnes struggled faintly. She was still lying in the same position, 
her face bidden, in prostrate. powerless,griet ; and Rose knelt beside 
her pale ns death, fixing the eyes, from which lnr tears tell clown 
continually, upon Harry’s face, while her throat quivered now and 
then with a convulsive gasp. Martha, at his other side, with her 
head bent upon her folded arms, shook with great tremblings, like 


198 


HARRY MUIR. 


successive waves — but no sound came from her; and the lawyer, 
alraid to move, ami full of awe, stood silent at Hie fool of 1 lie bed. 
Through this sc ne ascended Harry’s voice, low and faint, but 
distinctly audible; and now he reads from his child’s memory, what 
has been read by his bedside only recently, in hope to eaten some 
parsing gleam of consciousness— the last words of the Lord! 

Oh! wonderful, benign and tender words!— spoken under the 
very death-shadow, by that One who alone was flee to redeem — who 
can tell what was their influence upon the rapt soul, which, past all 
human intercourse, was st 11 open to the dealings of the Lord? Mys- 
terious awe and wonder hushed even their very prayers. Iso human 
speech could move him now, or reach his veiled and hidden soul; 
but the way w as all open to God. 

x\ll through the night Hariy continued thus — with broken pray- 
ers. and words of Holy VY i it, mingling with the common things to 
which he sometimes returned— and towarel the dawn he fell into a 
bioken sleep. 

The law r yer, meanwiiile, waited. It was a singular kindness; but 
Harry might awake out of his trance at any moment, and this man, 
who had a kindly heart, was concerned for the family, and suffi- 
ciently ml crested to give Ins time without much grudging. And 
they had all a vague expectation that Harry would awake from this 
sleep, in possession of his faculties. 

They were right, he did so; and after a few minutes of repose 
and contemplation, and of tender words to those around him, he 
started again, anu asked for the lawyer. Mr. Robertson came from 
the library, where he had been sitting, and Harry sent his sisters 
and his wife away. 

They were not long shut out from the sick-room. The lawyer 
left the chamber and tiie house, with a farewell of deep and melan- 
choly sympathy; and for about an hour after, Harry continued con- 
scious of their presence. But this consciousness was broken and 
disturbed; and atieiward he sunk back into a slumbrous, interrupted 
reverie, from which he never woke again. 


CHAPTER XLVL 


’Tis over— over: here is no present now; 
All life lies in the past. 


Old Play. 

There is a deep hush upon Allenders, the silence of death; and 
quiet footsteps glide about anolher sick-room, passing by the door, 
where lies one who shall want human tendance never again. Poor 
little Agnes, worn out and broken, lies there very ill; and they are 

watching her night and day, as a week ago they watched Harry 

but with better hope. 

Ami now all the dreary business of fhis time falls upon Martha. 
She thinks they will craze her — those necessary directions which she 
is compelled to give; and Martha can not aftord to risk either her 
mind or her health for the family’s sake, which now hangs on her 
hands to be provided for. So the second day alter Harry’s death 
she wrote to Charteris, the only friend, near at hand, to whom she 
could apply. 


HARRY MUIR. 199 

Martha’s letter was abrupt and short; she could not intimate 
what had come upon them in many words. 

“ My brother Harry is dead ’’—this was her letter— “ Agnesis ill; 
and I alone am left to do what this trial requires to be done. You 
wi re his friend, and wished him well. Will you come to my aid in 
this extremity for his sake?” 

It might have been the letter of a cold heart. Cuthbert knew 
bettei than to think it was. 

And from the window of Agnes’s sick-room, Martha, giave and 
tearless, watched them carry away the dead. There was a long 
funeral train, for now that lie was dead, everyone was ready to pay 
respect to poor Harry. Little Lettie, weeping as it her heart would 
break, had seen the hearse stand at (he door; now she grew sud- 
denly si ill, chill, and full of mysterious terror; and when Mysie 
lifted her from the windavv, and softly opened the shutters, letting 
in the hitherto excluded sunshine, Lettie sat down on the carpet in 
the light, and shivered and sobbed, but could not weep. They had 
carried him away — poor Harry! where never mortal ear should hear, 
or mortal eye look on him again; and Lettie’s little trembling heart 
was overpowered with irreslrainable longing 1o see his face; and 
she could not remember it — could not recall, except in a mist, the 
features she knew so well. 

A tew of the most considerable followers of the funeral, bir John 
Dunlop and liis son, Mr. Ilaig ol Foggo, and Cuthbert Chaiteris, 
who had arrived two days before, and arranged every tiling, returned 
with the minister, Mr. Robertson the Stirling wtiter, and Lncie 
Sandy, to the house. It was a considerable surprise to all, to find 
that there was a will, and they returned to be present while it was 

The party assembled in the dining -room, where the blinds were 
still closed, and the funeral bread and wine remained on the table. 
When they had waited tor some time. Martha and Rose and little 
Lettie came in. They %vere all already dressed in the deepest 
mourning, and Rose, trembling and half-hysteric, was deadly pale; 
her eyes wandered from side to Side, and she held up her head with 
a mechanical motion, as if only half-conscious where she was. Let- 
tie wistful and full of mysterious trembling, was still keenly alive 
to everything that passed, and attended, with her eyes fixed on 
every speaker with an intense regard, which riveted every word 
upon her nnnd. On Martha’s usual appearance there was little 
change Her eyes were more hollow, perhaps, and the wrinkles 
deeper in her brow; but that was all. Uncle Sandy, passive and 
absorbed, sat by them in perfect silence. The old man was gieatly 
shaken with this unexpected grief. „ 

“ Before we begin to this business, said the minister, let us 
pray again with and ter this afflicted family. I am sure they have 
all our deepest sympathy aud good wishes. Let us commend them 
to the God of consolations.” _ 

They were all standing before he concluded; but Cuthbert saw 
the little gasp and totter with which Rose left her chair, closing her 
eyes with the blindness of a worn-out heart. He had not time to 
think if his impulse was prudent; it was enough that he could not 
stand by, and see her unsupported, while he was there to give her 


HARRY MUIR. 


200 

help. He stepped forward hastily, and taking both her hands into 
his own, drew one of them through his arm, and held up her weak- 
ness with his strength. A little audible sub came from the over- 
charged breast of Rose. She did not think of Cuthbert, nor was he 
sufficiently callous to believe she could She was thinking of poor 
Harry in his new grave, and longing, like Lettie, to see his face once 
more; but she leaned upon the strong arm which supported her, 
ami a vague, unconscious comfort came to Rose’s heart. 

But Martha, whose fate it was to stand alone — to whom no one 
came to offer support — whose heart knew its own bitterness, and 
whose cares there was none to share or lighten, held with both 
hands the back of a chair, and bent over it heavily with a stoop 
like the stoop of age. Lettie, standing near her, drew close to 
Martha with the same impulse which drew Outlibert to Rose, and 
Lettie laid her head softly against her eldest sister’s arm It moved 
the silent mourner into sudden irrestraimible tears, and she put out 
the arm wlo'cli long exhaustion and straining 1m l made almost rigid, 
and drew the child into her heart, pressing her there witli a convuls- 
ive grasp. So were the sisters helped through this painful hour, 
each as suited her best. 

YY hen they were again seated, Martha spoke: 

“ My sister is ill — Airs. Allenders— she can not receive you, gen- 
tlemi n, nor thank you. 1 thank you in her stead. 1 thank you for 
paying this respect — for doing all the honor t L at can be done now 
—I Blank you— I thank you. Have 1 to do anything more?” 

And Martha looked round for a moment vacantly; she was for- 
getting heiself like one in a dream. 

Then the lawyer rose and read the will. It bequeathed all the 
lands— everything of which Harry died possessed — to Martha Muir 
Allenders. There was no hing in it but the barest words, which 
made it a lawful document, and Harry’s signature at the end. 

A violent start came over Martha — a strange smpr se upon the 
strangers present. ‘‘Poor little Mrs. Allenuers!” they whispered 
to themselves, and wondered whether she would contest this will or 
no, or if tt was worth her while, as thev heard the land was greatly 
burdened. Tne only person* present who evinced no wonder, were 
Rose and little Lettie, to whom it seemed the most natural ar- 
rangement, that Martha should be their family head; bu Sir John 
D tnlop rose coldly to shake hands with Miss Allenders of Allenders. 
lie had no sympathy with her now. 

‘‘Stay,” said M rtlia, “stay. 1 beg; there is something more to 
be said. Wa* he — lie— able to execute this when he did it? Was 
his mind clear? Tell me — let me not say his name more than 1 
mu -t.” 

‘‘ Of sound mind.” said the writer gravely, ‘‘ with perfect knowl- 
edge of what he was doing— cooler than I am now; lie said he had 
broken your heart and lost your hopes — that lie had nothing re- 
maining but t lie land, and he would give it to you, to make a better 
use ot it limn he had done ” 

“ He had remaining that was dearer than the laud, and he be- 
queathed them to me,” said Martha, with difficulty. “ If this land 
is mine now, bear me witness that it is only for the boy — only for 
little Harry, his heir, for Agnes and her other child. 1 take the 


trust since he cave it— but nothing is mine— 1 tell you nothing is 
mine. Mr. Chnrteiis, 1 liust it to you to see a deed made equal to 
this will, securing the land to his lawful heir. Now. may we go 
away? 1 am faint and exhausted— 1 can not speak; but thank you 
— thank you. Our best thanks to you all— to all who have been lieie 
to-day — for the respect— for the honor.” 

And as they came in, the three sisters left the room. 

But the lawyer shook his head when Cuthbert asked him what 
he knew of Harry’s affairs. 

“ Heavy debts, heavy d bis,” said Mr. Robertson — ”! hear as 
much as five thousand pounds — and how can they ever pay that, 
oil four hundred and fifty pounds a-vear, which is all the estate 
yields? My opinion is, as a private friend, that they should sell the 
land. 1 can not tell just now how much, hut certainly it will re- 
quite a heavy sum for a year or two to keep up the cultivation the 
way it has been begun. No doubt it will be very hard to give it up 
after such a capital is sunk in these fields; but then unless they 
have good friends to back them, how can they ever try to carry on 
with such a load? And I heat there’s one thousand of debt at least, 
at extravagant interest. My opinion is, they should sell the land.” 

” 1 don’t think they will ever consent to that,” said Cuthbert. 

“ It’s easy to see,” said the writer earnestly; “ deduct two hun- 
dred and fifty tor interest, it leaves them two hundred to live on- 
plenty, I confess, tor a family of women, especially when there is a 
person of resolution among them like Miss Allenders; but if she 
should live a hundred years, she’ll never be able to pay a penny of 
the principal off thal. \ou are a friend, Mr. Cliarteris, 1 think you 
should advise Miss Allenders to sell the land.” 

” She herself knows best. 1 will speak to her,” said Cuthbert; 
” i< depends entirety on what she means lo do ” 

A week after* they were able to lift Agnes from her bed to a fire- 
side sofa. Her fever was gone: but the sweet convalescence of an 
invalid surrounded by loves and cares, was sad and heavy to the 
young widow — tor everything reminded her of Harry. She listened 
unawares to passing sounds without, and started and thought he was 
coming — faucied she heard his step on the stair, and the litile cheer- 
ful s»ir with which he was wont to enier the outer room into which 
her own opened; and then she wept— poor youthful bioken heart! 
— but there was ielief in those floods of tears. 

They were all sitting round her— Martha close by her on the sofa, 
supporting and gently moving, when she wished it, her delicate 
feeble frame. And Rose held the baby up to her, while litlle Harry, 
wonderinsr, and solemnly silent, stood by her, with his arm resting 
on her knee. Uncle Sandy, much shaken, and looking ten years 
older, stood behind at the window, trying, with much exertion, to 
compose himself and speak to Agnes of the duty and mcessityof 
resignation; but the good old man needed the exhortation as much 
as she did. Lettie, last of all, sat on a stool by tlie file very silent, 
practicing a stitch of “opening” which she lmd importuned Rose 
to teach her; and Katie Calder, behind Lettie, looked over her 
shoulder, and learned the stitch too. 

” What are we tw do, Martha?” said Aanes, feebly. “ Tell me, 

I will soon be well now— are we to go away?” 


202 


HARRY MUIR. 


Martha lard her hand on little Harry's head, and drew him into 
the midst. The child stood gravel}' silent, looking up under her 
hand, with wondering eyes, and ruddy lips apart. Poor little Hairy 
had- cried a great deal through these seven days, for he could not 
understand why they led him after the coffin, and made him stand 
beside the grave. He cried then with dread and terror, but since 
then many a time had Harry asked Mysie what had become of: 
papa. 

“ This bairn must have the land, tree as when we came,” said 
Martha, calmly; “ and when the land is clear and ledeemed, Agnes, 
lie must have lair lame, and family credit, and good report, to add 
to his inheritance. 1 am lett in trust to clear the land for its heir; 
we must slay in Allemlers.” 

Agnes did not speak for a moment. £lie glanced round the room, 
first with a sick, despairing look, as if in fear of all its associations, 
then with tears and melting tenderness. The young mother pul one 
feeble arm around her boy, and leaned her head upon Martha’s 
shoulder, “lam very glad,” she said, “ very glad— we will have 
no other home.” 

This was all that was said to her in her weakness about the will, 
wbicli might have added a concealed pang to Agnes’s lawful grief 
— tor nou she was too jealous of Harry’s love, and could not bear 
to think that auy one bad shared it with her, in anything near 
the same degree. Poor Harry ! it was true that Maltha and Uncle 
Sandy perceived the rash, unconsidering generosity, which set nat- 
ural justice aside, to make this hasty will; but they said this to no 
one, nor to each jlher even; and in the hearts i»f all, Harry’s sins 
were forgotten. He was already a saint canonized by sorrow and 
love. 

“And Katie and me would like to do the opening,” said Lettie 
in a lialf-wliisper; “ and Martha, Katie wants you to tell her that 
she’s no to go back to Miss Jean.” 

“ Oh, will you let me stay?” said little Katie, pathetically. “ I’ll 
never be ony trouble, and ] could do the opening fine.” 

“ The bairn’s bread will never be missed,” said Uncle Sandy, 
leaning upon the back of the sofa where Martha sat. “ Ye must 
come with me, bairns, for a change, and stay a while in Ayr to rest 
your minds, poor things! -and Martha, my woman, you have mony 
a hard thing to do— you’ll have to see Miss Jean.” 

“ Ay, uncle,” said Martha, “ and 1 hear there is somebody in 
Edinburgh besides; it’s only about money, Agnes; nothing to vex 
you, my poor bairn; and you must trust me with all. Will you go 
witn my uncle, Agnes?” 

“If you will, Martha,’’ said the poor little invalid, holding by 
her indulgent nurse. 

“ 1 will come for a day,” said Martha; “ but now 1 must learn 
about business,” she added, with a faltering smile, “ and take order 
for many things. 1 can not be long away from AHemieis. Pose 
will go with you and the bairns. You have the bairns, Agnes, God 
be thanked! to comfoit you.” 

And Rose, who had not. spoken, again field up the baby, who 
Stretched out his hand to pull his young mother’s cap, and ciowed 


HARRY MUIR. 203 

and laughed in her face, struggling to reach her arms with baby- 
glee. 

Poor little unconscious, fatherless boy! Very strange looked this 
impulse of infant joy among all those sorrowful faces; and with a 
burst, which none could restrain, they all bowed down their heads 
and wept. 

All of them, from the old man sobbing aloud behind the little 
couch, and Martha, no longer able to preserve her self-control, to 
little Harry, struggling stoutly as he looks upon them all, anil 
breaking out in a loud shivering sob before the tears come; and it is 
some Pme before they can recover themselves— before the invalid is 
carried to her bed, and watched till she falls asleep, and they all 
dispense to do wdiat they can, aud conquer themselves. Martha and 
Uncle Sandy wait in the library for Charteris, who is to return to- 
day, bringing with him an account of poor Harry’s debts — and their 
consultations are very grave; and you can fancy that on Martha’s 
brow, care takes the place of sorrow — for no one knows the deep 
life grief, undisturbable and still, which lies at the bottom of her 
heart. Martha treats Agnes as if she were the principal sufferer; 
comforts Rose; soothes and consoles the very children, but does not 
say what she feels— that to all of them lie other interests, other 
hopes, and gladnesses within the world which they still are only 
entering— whereas herself sees nothing in the future but a monu- 
ment of good fame, honor, and charity to be raised over Harry’s 
grave. This is the end which, proud of him, and jealous lor him 
still, she proposes to herself, caring little what obstacles lie in the 
way; and Uncle Sandy understands the wish, but doubts in his 
heart, in spite of all his faith in Martha, and can not see how she is 
to accomplish it. 

Meanwhile Agnes sleeps — forgets her griefs, and strengthens the 
feeble health which has worn lo so delicate a thread; and Rose, 
sitting beside her, overcome by much watching, constant fatigue, 
and a sorrow no less present and engrossing than the young 
widow’s, falls into quiet slumber too, and has a faint pensive smile 
under the tears which still fall in her dream; and Violet anci 
Katie sit on the carpet at the drawing-room window, with their 
heads close together, learning other stitches. Sometimes, indeed. 
Lettie pauses 10 cry bitterly, and Katie wipes eyes which stream in 
sympathy; but they are boil^mucli absorbed with this delicate craft, 
and are calculaiing bow many “ holes ” they could do in a day, 
and how they will be able lo help Martha; so the children are com- 
forted. 

And deep exhaustion and quietness is upon Allenders. Idly in 
the faint sunshine. Dragon sits < n his stair head, and thinks with a 
faint wonder of his own recovery and Mr Harry s death, and can 
not apprehend that it is true, but listens still for his quick ringing 
footstep, and calis to John to inquire why Harry’s horse is left con- 
tinually grazing in the meadow park; and John in the kitchen 
speculat.s in a subdued and sober tone, upon the changes which 
may happen, and thinks he will speak to the minister about a new 
place m case of the worst. In Maidlin fTo“s there is much specm 
lation too, and they wonder if the family will stay at Allenders, and 
whether they will sell the land: but nothing is known; and many 


204 


HARRY MUIR. 


an honest sigh tor poor Allenders heaves from the broad breasts of 
his laboring men, and many a cottage mother lifts her apron 
mechanically to her eye, when she speaks ot the “ wee! spoken,” 
kindly dead Poor Harry! his whole world, gently and h nderly, 
let die veil of death fall over his evil deeds; remember only what he 
did well; and peace is upon his grave. 


CHAPTER XLV11. 

For mine inheritance I take this grave; 

Myself shall be its constant monument. 

I have spent all my tears. In other fashion 

Than with faint weepings must my dead be mourned. 

For on this little sod I have beside 
A battle-ground. Think you the caitiff shame 
Shall share this consecrated spot with me? 

Old Play. 

“ They must not bid me; 1 can not sell the land,” said Martha, 
firmly. 

Noting Mr. Dunlop, deputed by his lather to ofier any “ rea- 
sonable ” assistance in arranging her affairs, or any quantity ot ad- 
vice reasonable or otherwise, sat opposite her in the library; Culh- 
bert Cbarteris waited rather impatiently. They had been engaged 
in an important eonsulta ion when Mr. Dunlop entered, and Cuth- 
beit was turning over some papers le-tlessly, and looking lound 
now and then, as it about to speak; nut young Mr. Dunlop still 
loused anything hut peaceable feelings in Cutlibert’s mind, and he 
remained silent. 

Of course. Miss Allenders. mv father would never dream ot 
forcing his advice upon you. All 1 have to say is. that in case you 
are disposed to sell I lie land, as we h ard you were, Sir John 
would be g’ad to make you an otter for part of it — that is all.” 

‘‘1 am much obliged to Sir John Dunlop,” said Martha, “but 
we have no intention — 1 can not see we have any light —to dispose 
of any pail of Allenders. r l hanks, many thanks; but we must try 
to increase, not lo alienate.” 

After some lime. Mr. Dunlop went away. He did not understand 
the quiet gravity with which lie was received, and carried home 
such an account of Martha’s callousness, that his sist* r laughed, 
scornfully, and said Miss Allenders fiad nmvidi d for lieiselt, and 
would soon lecover ot her grief. Good Lady Dun op only shook 
her head, and secretly resolved to call at Allenders, and see about 
this for herself; she could not believe that Harry’s trusted siste r was 
callous to his lo.-s, when she herself. Lady Dunlop, who never had 
known death, except twenty years ago, when she h>st a very little 
lisping child — a mseting with the adversary which she never could 
forget— always lifted her handkerchief to her eyes, and gave a sigh 
to poor Allenders when his name was mentioned. She could not 
believe in Martha’3 hardness of heart. 

“* It must be attended with very considerable expense,” said Char- 
teris. You must either pait with Allenders, or double its value 
— there is no alternative. And 1 do not see at present, w here this 


IIARRY MUIR. 


205 




■necessary seed of capital is to be procured. But we musr try. You 
'will come to E linburgh then, on Monday, and see the cieditoi? 

“ That is bur thousand pounds, and Miss Jean one; and I have 
beard there were oilier Pills, ' said Martha Yes, 1 will go on 
Monday. Cau we pay all this, do you think, in one life time? 
And then there is the present money to be thought of; another 
thousand they say would do. YVe could manage to pay the interest 
of all that.'’ , 

“ But not to live besides, ’’said Cutlibert, hastily. 

Manila’s head rose with a slight proud motion. “ 1 have pro- 
vided for that,” she said, with haughtiness; but immediately soft- 
ening added so frankly that Cutlibert was touched almost to tears: 

“ i mean we aie all ready to vvoik, and veiy willing. V\ e aie now 
as we were before we came to A1U rulers; one is not-— but what re- 
mains to do is for him: and we, all of us, sisters, and dearest to 

each other, areas we were.” , , . . , , 

As she concluded, her tears fell silently upon the desk before her. 

” God is visiting my heart with the dews of youth,” said Martha, 
looking up with a sad smile of surprise. “ I can cry now, when- 
ever 1 would, like a bairn.’ . . 

And Cutlibert, who was a man, and a strong one, felt Ins heart 
swell; arid with a strong impulse ol help, bethought himself winy; 
he could do for those sisteis, to aid them in their work. 

“ The houses at Maidlin must stand for a time, said Martha. 

“ You will think me weak, Mr. Charters, but 1 can not abandon 
even them; and we must try to findaplace for Jo in and to sell the 
carriage and the horses. We will keep the gig which the eld Land 
of A Uenders left, and Mysie— ” 

Martha stopped, with white lips and a strong shiver. She was 
about to say, that Mysie, like many other country girls, could drive, 
but iust then there occurred to her the time when Me sic made trial 
of her skill, through the darkness of that llallowe eu night, and 

tor a moment she was silent. ,, pnm , 

•* It will do for Agnes; all the rest of us are strong, resumed Mar- 
tha with a voice th t sounded harshly. “ 1 ihink 1 can undertake 
that the house its. It will cost the land m illing; and Armstrong s 
e()ll d ?md honest, and only wants some one to bid him uo vi h.it lie 
knows is necessary to be dote; 1 can undertake that, too. 1 
l!e was here yesterday. See what cur calculations were, Mr. Gnar- 

^'charteris took the paper and read. Though not in the ordinary 
business form, it was a statement ol expenses tor a }ear, including 
• he inter t st to Mies Jean, and Harry’s other creditor. He asked to 
keen t and she permit.^ him. Cutlibert began to he very san- 
guine; he thought lie saw now where to find the money to complete 
poor Harry’s experiment with the land. 

U^gftTThey will he appointed,-; said 
Martha 3 “ We have seen veiy lulle ol you, Mr. Chatteris, Huce 
since we came liete; hut pray stay to-night, and cheer these poor 
iriils I am perhaps too much occupied lor then., poor things, 
fnd they a”e P going P with my uncle to Ayr. Stay and see them to- 
night, or you will disappoint them. 


206 


HARliY MUIR. 


“Disappoint them? should 1?” said Culhbert, smiling faintly., 
“ I stayed away because 1 thought myself very^ magnanimous and 
self denying — peihaps it was only because my piide was wounded; 
but to disappoint them, or think 1 did, would be too gieat a pleasure 
—I must see them, to convince myself that I have not so much 
cause for pride.” 

i nd Cuthbeit, in a little flush of growing hope 'and gladness,, 
looked up into Martha’s face — Martha’s face, calm and unchangea- 
ble, full of the great still sorrow, lor which half an hour ago lie had 
himself wept, struck him like an accusation. He cast down his eves 
in silence, and stood before her almost like a culprit; for the warm 
hopes and joys of the future looked selfish and small in thepies- 
ence of this absorbed and quiet grief. 

Just then Mysie entered, and gave Martha a letter. As she 
opened it, a piece of paper tell to the ground. Culhbert lifted it 
up; it was a note tor fifty pounds. 

Martha ran over the note quickly, yet with perfectly collected 
attention; then, altera moment’s hesitation, she handed it to Cuth- 
bert, and sat down at her desk to write. The lette: was from Gil- 
bert A 1 lenders. 

* * * * x- * * 

“Madam,— 1 borrowed at various times, little sums from your 
brother, the late Allenders — 1 can not undertake to say what they 
came to exactly, but not above this 1 inclose. L am leaving Allender 
Mains next week, and would be glad to call, if there is no objection; 
and would be gtad to know whether 1 have your permission, as I 
believe 1 had the permission of your brother, to pa.y my addresses 
to your sister, Miss Hose. This is not a suitable time to ask, but I 
am anxious to know, and intend to settle down in IStiiling; and will, 
be profited, 1 trust, by the lute. solemn watning, which, i assure 
you, has caused me the deepest regret. 

“ YVitn much sympathy, ana comoliments to all the family, 

” 1 remain, dear madam, 

“ Youis faithfully', 

“ Gilbert Allenders.’’ 

* * * * * * * 

Culhbert unconsciously crushed the letter in his hand. Incon- 
siderable as his rival was. he was a lival still. 

Martha’s answer was very brief. 

******* 

“ 1 return you with thanks, the money you have sent me. IV e who r 
remain have nothing to do with what passed between the dead and 
you. Let this be past, like everything else which put \ our names 
together. We are little disposed to receive callers. Without anyr 
discourtesy, 1 think it is better that you should not come. 

“Martha Muir Allenders.” 
******* 

It was the first time she had signed her name so; and Martha 
placed the fifty-pound note within her letter, when she had shown it 
to Cuthberl, who looked on with some astonishment. Collected and 


IIARRY MUIR. 


207 


self -possessed as she was, Martha could not, without stiong emo- 
tion (ithei Mile or speak poor llatry’s name, and her whole frame 
cm vered with nervous excitement, as she closed her letter. Uitli- 
bert was much surprised; lie thought this a piece ot quite unneces- 

Stl ’“ ls^fooiishr' said Martha, answering his look. “ Well, be it 
so; but no one shall say that he gave this to a careless companion 
and mat it was exacted back again. 1 tell you, the meanest g ft he 
ever gave, were it tor his own desti notion, is sacred to me never 
to beared aimed. It was his own. I will not hear a word of 

And this irritation and defiance was the weakness ot Malthas 

° ! To subdue it, she rose abruptly, and went upstairs to > the draw* 
in-rDom. where Agnes now sat by 'lie hre, watching the wmtery 
sunshine steal in at Uie window. Over the bright hair, which never 
befote Had been covered with a matron’s hood, Agnes wore the 

close, somber cap of a widow. They had 1 1 ! ed . l ° iVnes ' 
this was unnecessary; but poor little invalid, heat -broken Agnes, 
bad riittle petulancfe too, and insisted. Wrapped in a heavv black 
shawl, and with everything about her of the deepest ^ 

tace closely surrounded by t ose folds of muslin, looked verj thm 
IMSTbut the faint color ot reviving health began to rtse .n^r 
cheek, and Agnes sometimes, in the impatience of earl} sorrow, 

went that she could not. die. , , 

Uncle Sandy sat beside her, and a taint attempt at conversation 
bad been going on; but it failed often, and bad long breaks of list- 
less silence; and Cuthbert fancied the patient, uncomplaining sr- 
row of the old man—the weakness which seemed to have fallen 
over him. the trembling hand, and husky voice, were almost the 

"s^byteiabie, working: Lettie and Katie Cal der were at 
the window ; but you scarcely needed to lcok at L jheir b ack c h-esses, 
to kno°7 that those strange wurds, It is all ovet, with tliur sol 
emn mystery of significance, had been lately spoken here.^ AH was 
, OVl . r _ verytlhng-lite, death, anxiety, excitement Then heads 
were dizzy* and their minds reeled under the recent blow; yet noth- 
in- was visible but languor, and a dim exhausted calm. 

And this evenin- passed, as every other evening seemed to pass, 
lil^ some stran^ vacant space, blank and still; yet Rose, when 
Cuthbert sat beside her. felt a grateful ease at her heart. It seemed 
as it s>me one had lifted from her, for a ruoment. her mdmdual 
burden; and sad though the family was and languid and melan 
choly the afflicted house, Cuthbert remembered this evening, with a 
thrill of subdued and half-gnihy delight, andagamhishearJonged, 
and his arms expanded, to carry away into the ruinshine ins droop 

ing Rose. 


208 


HARRY MUIR. 


CHAPTER XLVI1I. 

Albeit I neither lend nor borrow; 

Yet, to supply the ripe wants of a friend, 

I’ll break a custom. 

Merchant of Venice. 

“ Another day — 1 must give another day,” sahl Cuthbert as lie 
hesitated between the Edinburgh anil the Glasgow coach. “ Nobody 
but I can do this business, amt the business must be done, let my 
own do what it will— so now for Glasgow and my uncle.” 

And Cuthbert climbed to the top ot t lie coach, and discovered 
that the winds between Stirling and Glasgow are very keen in No- 
vember. lie buttoned his coat tightly, and drew his plaid arouud 
him, with care and repeated exertions; but neither coat nor plaid, 
nor both together, made such an excellent defeuse against cold, as 
the glow at his heart. 

The office or the Mi ssrs. Buchanan is unchanged. It is true, one 
clerk has gone to Australia, and another to the West Indies — that 
one is in business lor himself, and two are dead; but still Mr. Gil- 
christ’s massive silver snulf-box glitters up,on his desk, and still he 
contemplates its long inscription, and taps it lovingly, as he takes 
another pinch. Again, there is one clerk in the office who is a wit, 
and sings a goon sous:, and is “ led away,” and still Dick ami 
Alick, and Johu Buchanan, are cool and business-like in the count- 
ing-house, and enjoy themselves boisterously out of it; though there 
are rumors that Dick is to be married, and “ settle down.” 

Tiie young Buchanans stare at Cuthbirt’s mourning — the crape 
on his hat, and his grave face — amt wonder wnat far. away cousin 
must be dead, whom they have never heard ot, amt feel an involun- 
tary guiltiness when thev look upon their own colored dress. Very 
far off and very poor must tins cousin have been, thev are all im- 
mediately prepared to defend themselves and to exclaim that they 
got no intimation. 

“ Wlmt is this for. Cuthbert?” said Mr. Buchanan hastily, point- 
ing to the hat in Cuthbert’s hand. 

‘‘ Do you remember Hairy Muir, uncle?” said Cuthbert. ” Poor 
Harry! those bits ot crape are ail that remain to him, ot this 
world’s friendship and honor.” 

Mr Buchanan started, and was greatly shocked. ‘‘ Poor fellow! 
1 thought he was prospeiing now, and doing well— poor fellow! 
poor fellow! When diet it happen, Cuthbert?” 

‘‘ I heard the other day he bad turned out very wild,” 6aid Alick 
Buchanan. 

*' He always was; there was no making anything of him in the 
office.” added Dick hastily. 

Poor Harry! his old tempter and opponent felt a little twinge 
when he saw Cuthbert’s mourning, and remembered him, without 
any particular satisfaction, of his own “joke,” as he called it, 
about his cousin and his sister Clernie. 

*' Poor Harry! some of the best men in the country followed him. 


HARRY MUIR. 


209 


to his grave,” said Cuthhert, who understood very well the material 
he had to work upon, “ and a universal regret went with him. Uncle, 

1 have a little business to talk over with you, it you will permit me. 
Aie von at leisure now?” 

‘ What’s going to happen, Cutlibert?” said Mr. Buchanan, smil- 
ing 1 “ a bride coining home, eh? and what will your mother say to 
that? But come along. I'll go down with you— you shall have the 

beut fit ot my experience.” . , , 

Mr. Buchanan’s piain unpretending one-horse carriage waited tor 
him ui the street below. The young men, very independent and un- 
controlled, came home in such manner as pleased them; but Cutli- 
bert bad to wait lid die streets, shining with lights, and loud with 
many voices, had faded into datkness behind them, and they w«ie 
steadily proceeding over a quiet country road, before he could bring 

his business before his attentive uncle. . 

“ 1 have very hdely returned from the funeral of Harry Muir 
said Cuthhert, whose face had been gradually becomi ng grave, and 
wlm had begun to grow anxiously impatient ot their lighter con- 
versaiion; “and just now, uncle, 1 come direct from his house,, 
where his sister has hten consulting me about her future arrange- 
ments One can not but be interested in this family— they clung to 
hnn with such devotion; and all they care for now, seems to be to 
maintain bis good name, and clear his sou s inheritance. Bool 

Harry! few men aie loved sn, uncle.” T . . . 

“ He was a very unsteady lad, Cutlibert,” said the merchant, shak- 

’“"'un.Tjiht be so,” said Cutlibert. “ 1 do not dispute that; but 
now lie is dead ; and 1 have set my heari on having help to Maltha 

p mean to his elder sister, who has charge of everything, bhe 

needs immediate assishince, uncle. 1 stale my business you see, 
very briefly; and now retuse it you will. I am not to be discour- 
aged bv anv number ot Nays.” . \ . 

“ Assistance!” exclaimed Mr. Buchanan hastily, tumbling m his. 
breast Docuet tor his purse, “ do you mean to say l j ie y re tar re ° 
duced as that? No, no— no refusal, Cuthhert; I don t often shut 
my heart when there is real charity in the case.” „ 

‘‘ l know you don’t, uncle, and this would be a great chanty, 
said Cutlibert, quickly, feeling his face flush in the darkness; but 
no alms-no aims. 1 will tell you the true stated thecasennw The 
estate lias had very little cultivation, and produces very indifferent 
crons Poor Harry, during the last year, had begun to improve it, 
ancTex pended a great deal of money on the land; but now he is 
dead, and the money spent, and a heavy debt upon the estate. They 
could pay the interest off their income, but could not touch the 
nrinoinal Now 1 , what are they to do, uncle?” 

1 “ Why, Cuthhert, a man of your sense! only one thing is possi- 

uip of course, sell tlie land. , , ... 

“ But Martha will never sell the land. Martha will labor at it 
with her own hands before she alienates the child s inheritance, 
said Cutlibert, getting excited. “ 1 want money for her to cany 
nn tbp works with- and this money she will have, one way or 
another L know. My own scheme, uncle,” added Cuthhert, with 
a short’ laugh, under which a great deal of anxiety was hidden, 


no 


HARRY MUIR. 


** is that you should give her a thousand pounds, and charge 
no interest lor a year or two, till she gets everything in progiess. 1 
think this is the best possible solution of the problem, kindly and 
Christian like — ” - * 

While Cuthbert spoke, Mr. Buchanan employed himself deliber- 
ately in buttoning his coat over the comfortable breast-pocket, 
where bis purse trembled with a present inn nt. 

“ Thank you. Cuthbert,” said the merchant dryly, “ 1 have no 
thousand pounds to throw away.” 

There was a pause; for Cuthbert, though not at all discouraged, 
needed to recover himself a little before be resumed the attack. 

“ The land could be sold to-morrow for ten thousa d pounds, or 
more than that — 1 speak hastily,” said Cuthbert. ‘‘ It is burden- d 
to the amount of live thousand, but after paying that, t here remains 
abundance to satisfy your claim, and 1 can answer for the strictest 
honor in your debtor’s dealing. Poor Harry! This Martha— this 
sister of his— clings to his every project. You could not see it with- 
out being deeply moved, uncle. She has a strong, ambitious, pas- 
sionate mind, and his wrsa weak and yielding one; yet slie clutches at 
every one of tlie raoidly changing projects which he took up and 
then threw down as toys of a day, and confers upon them a sort of 
everiusf ingness through the might of will and resolution with which 
she adopts them. Uncle, you must help Martha.” 

Mr Buchanan sat by him in silence, and listened, hastily fasten- 
ing and unfastening the one particular button which admitted his 
hand to his warm breast-pocket, competent anil comfortable. The 
good man was naturally benevolent to a high degree— a propensity 
which Cuthbert, who was his uncle’s favorite ami chosen counselor, 
encouraged by all means in his power; but the rules of business were 
at Mr Buchanan’s finger ends, and their restraint came up upon him 
like a natural impulse, so that he actually did not know, good sim- 
ple man. that his natural will was always toward the charity, and 
that this restraint was someihing artificial which interposed between 
him and his natural will. 

** Perfectly unbusiness like, Cuthbert,” said the merchant. “ 1 
wonder greatly why you should speak of such a thing to me. A 
man accustomed to regular business transactions lias no tolerance 
for such affairs as this — they are out of his way r . Your landed gen- 
try or rich people, who don’t know anything about where their 
money comes from, or how it is made— they are the people to carry 
such a story to.” 

Very true in the abstract, good Mr. Buchanan— nevertheless, your 
nephew Cuthbert knows, as well as it you had told him, that your 
purse begins to burn your breast pocket, and leaps and struggles 
there, desiring to get the worst over, and be peacefully al rest 
again. Cuthbert knows it; and Cuthbert takes advantage of his 
knowledge. 

“ Martha is trustee, and has charge of all,” sail Cuthbert; “ and 
there is little Mrs. Allenders herself, and her two babies. Little 
Harry, the heir, is a fine bold, intelligent boy, young as lie is, and 
will want no care they can give him — that is very sure. Then there 
are two other children quite dependent on Martha— lier own little 
sister, and another, a distant relation, poor and fatherless, whom 


HARRY MUIR. 


211 


they have kept with them ever since they went to Allenders. Now 
there can be no doubt it would be easier lor them to go away to 
some little, quiet, -country house, and live on what they can earn 
themsi Ives, and on the residue ol what the land will bring; but 
Martha would break her heart. It is a generous devotion, uncle. 
She proposes to take the management of the farm herself, and has- 
actually begun to make herself unstress of this knowledge, so 
strange tor a woman; while the exertions of the otheis, and ol her 
own spare boms, are to piovide the household expenses, she calcu- 
lates. All this is for Harry, and Harry's heir; and it is no burst of 
enthusiasm, hut a steady, quiet, undemonstrative determination. 
Come, uncle, you will help Martha?” 

” Is that the old sister— the passionate one?” asked Mr. Buch- 
anan. 

‘‘ The passionate one — .yes.” 

41 And there was surely one more that you have not mentioned; 
by the bye, Cutlibert,” said Mr. Buclianan. hastily, “ the boys used 
to say pou went there often. There’s nothing Detvveen you and any 
of tbeui, I hope?” 

“ No, uncle!” the humility of the answer struck Mr. Buchanan 
strangely. He almost thought tor a moment that he had the little 
boy beside him, who used to spend holiday weeks in Glasgow, 
■when Dick was a baby with streaming skirt's, and “ there was no 
word ” of any of the others. It made the merchant’s heart lender,, 
even when lie turned to look upon the strong man by T his side. 

But Cutlibert, lor his part, thought himself guilty of disingenu- 
ousness, and by and by, be added, “ Don't let me deceive you, 
uncle. When 1 say no, 1 don’t mean to imply that there will never 
be, nor that even it there never is anything between us, it will be 
auv fault of mine.” 

But Mr. Buchanan only shook liis head— bow it came about he 
could not tell, but the good man’s eyelids wire moistened, and there 
came back to him momentary glimpses of many an early scene; be 
was pleased, too, however imprudent Cuthbert’s intentions might 
be, v iili the confidence Ire gave him— for that his nephew was more 
than li is equal, the good merchant very well knew. 

So Mr. Buchanan shook his head, and satisfied his conscience 
with the mute protest; ” he could not find it in his heart,” as he 
said to himself afterward in self-justification, to condemn his 
nephew’s true love. 

“ But this is not to the purpose,” continued Cutlibert. “ A thou- 
sand pounds, uncle, with the estate of A lle nders and myself for 
your securities. 1 am getting on rmsclt— 1 shall soon have a toler- 
able business, I assu e you, though this absence may put some of it 
in jeopardy. Give me my bo< n now, and let me burry back to my 
office— a thousand pounds— and of course you will not accept any 
interest for a few years.” 

Mr. Buchanan sighed. ‘‘It is a very unbusinesslike transac- 
tion Cutbbert,” said the merchant. 

“ But not the first unbusinesslike transaction you have carried 
to a good end.” said Cutlibert, warmly. ‘‘Take comfort, uncle; 
the Christian charity and the natural Jove, will bold out longer than 
business. Arid now’ you have given me your promise, 1 must say 


HARRY MUIR. 


212 

three words to my aunt and Olemie, and a> c k you to let 'Robert- drive 
me back again. 1 must be home to-morrow morning at my work." 

And traveling by night, in the disconsolate stage-conch was noth- 
ing like so satisinctoiy as an cxpress-tiain — yet Cuthbert went 
home very comfortably; and very (•( mf« rtahly did the slumber of 
an unencumbered mind, and a charitable h< art, fall ov<r Mr. Buch- 
auan, though still he sho< k his load at his own weakness, and 
was slightly ashamed to make a memorandum ot so uu business-like 
a concern. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

A bankrupt, a prodigal who dare scarce show his head on the Rialto; a beg- 
gar, that was used to come so smug on the mart. Let him look to his bond. He 
v a-i wont to call me usurer: let him look to his bond. He was wont to lend 
money for a Christian charity; let him look to his bond .— Merchant of Venice. 

A few days after this, Martha came to Edinburgh according to 
her appointment, to meet Harry’s principal creditor, accompanied 
by Uncle Sandy who, “ with all the bairns," as he said, was to re- 
turn home to Ayr whenever he was freed from his attendance on 
Martha. 

The meeting w*as arranged to lake place in Lindsay’s office, and 
Martha carried with her the half-year’s interest payable to this cred- 
itor. It was the last ot his own four thousand pounds. 

The man was a retired shop keeper, eloquent on “ the value of 
money,” and thinking the five or six thousands which were llie 
much- boasted result of bis life, a great fortune, justly entitling its 
possessor lo " a proper pride," Like most people, whose increase 
has been au accumulation of morsels, Mr. Macalister was terribly 
afraid of risk, and shrunk from speculation with the most orthodox 
horror. Persuaded at first to invest his money in Harry’s mortgage, 
because land was the most secure of banKS, his ears had l)e« n keenly 
alive, ever since, to every morsel of news he could glean about 
Harry; and when Mr. Macalister lnard he w T as wild, he trembled 
tor his four thousand pounds. Then came Harry’s death, and hear- 
ing that the properly was left only in the hands of women. Mr. 
Macalister had a vague notion that he had power to sell the lands 
of Allenders, and pay himself, v<ry probably making a profit of the 
transaction; or that he might, if be would, take possession, and 
become Laird of Allenders in his own person; but he had never 
mentioned inis grand imagination to any one, though it invested 
him with a visionary importance, which surprised his very wife. 
Yet Macalister was by no means a dishonest man, nor one who 
would deliberately set about benefiting hints* It by cheating his 
n< ighbors — by no means; but his exaggerated idea of the money 
which he had laboriously earned, made him believe that all this was 
in his power 

So he came lo Lindsay’s office very spruce and shining, with an 
elaborate shirt-trill, and a new cane, determined to demand instant 
repayment of the money, or failing that, to intimate his intention 
of ent' ring upon possession ot Allenders. 

Lindsay, somewhat puzzled, was endeavoring to understand the 
solemn hints, and important allusions ot Macalister, when Martha 


HARRY MUIR. 



213 


and her uncle entered his oifice. The creditor was somewhat taken 
by surprise; and when lie saw the deference witli which the lawyer 
received this grave-looking woman in her deep mourning, Macalis- 
tcr talleied: for he had never thought of “the ot Her puty — ” 
never, except as natural opponents and adversaries ot whom he, in 
this connection ot debtor and creditor, had greatly the advantage. 

“ 1 have been thinking — I’ll likely want my money. Miss Allen* 
ders,” said Macalister alter a few general words had passed, fol- 
lowed by an embarrassed si'ence. 

“ Mr. Lindsay will pay you the interest which is due,” said Mar- 
tha; “ and it would be a convenience to us if you did not— at hast, 
immediately — claim your money. The works for which it was bur- 
rowed have not had time yet to be profitable; but a few years more, 
1 trust — ” 

Ay, Miss Allenders; but it’s not so easy for me to wait a few 
years more,” said Macalister, briskly, restored to his natural self- 
importance by Martha’s request; “ tor ye see, I can show you 
plainly — '* 

Hut what Mr. Macalisrer could have shown plainly, remained for- 
ever unknown to Martha: for at that moment, a great comm Rion 
arose in the outer office, and the door of this room throw n violt ntly 
open, disclosed the ghnst-like fact-, inflamed whli fury, ot Miss Jtan 
Ca'der, who. holding Lindsay's chrkat arm’s lmgtli. with her long 
fiugeis clutched upon his shoulder, had thrown the door open with 
her d sengaged hand, and was about to enter the room. 

Involuntarily, Alexander Muir diew back his chair, and Martha 
started. Like a visitant from the dead, the old woman, with a 
great stride, enter d among them. Her tall, angular frame tottered, 
and her head shook, halt with rage and excitement, halt with the 
natural palsied motion of her extreme age. !3he was Uiessed in a 
1 >rge woolen shawl, once bright tartan, now as dim in its complex- 
ion as it was thin in its texture, and a large bonnet, standing out 
stiffly like a fan round her ghost face, which was cue rcled under 
it by a stiff ruff ot yellow lace. Miss Jean made one gicat step for- 
ward, and seizing upon Alexander Muir, shook him till heiseli was 
so thoroughly shaken that she scarcely could stand. 

“ Did 1 no tell } r e — did 1 no w T arn ye, Sandy Muir, that 1 would 
pit my fit 3 'et on his turf, that thought 1 was atild, and wished me 
.dead, and had his covetous e’e on my siller? I’m saying did 1 no 
tell ye? And I’ll tell ye what, sltange folk,” said Miss jean, turn- 
ing round with a glittering smile ot malice, “ I’m glad the repro- 
b ite’s dead— that am 1!— lor nuw he’ll keep nae honest body out of 
their ain.” 

Martha started from her seat with a violent passion— mingled of 
burning grief and fury — in her face. Her hand clinched, her form 
dilated — you would have thought her about to strike down at her 
feet the incarnate demon, who^e laugh of shrill malicious triumph 
rang ovei Harry’s grave; and, for an instant, a perfect tempest — an 
overwin lining storm, to whose rage < verything would have been 
possible — possessed Martha, like another kindred demon. Then 
she suddenly sat down, and clasping her hands together, leaned 
them on her knee, drawing up her person, and stretching out her 
arms to their full length as it t lie pi in were some relief to her; for 


H. . 


214 HARRY MUIR. 

years of endurance had not quenched Ihe passionate, fiery nature 
out ot Martha’s soul. 

“ He’s in the hands of God— he’s entered the life where no man 
makes siipwreck!” said Uncle Sandy, rising up. “Bairns, have 
pity upon this miserable woman, who ktns not the da} r that her 
soul may be required ot her. Cutse her not, Martha; curse her 
not. Ana, woman, 1 say, blessed are the dead — blessed are the 
young graves— blessed is the very pestilence and sword, that pre- 
serves innocent bail ns from living to be evened with the like of 
you!” 

And, with a visible tremble ot indignation shaking his whole 
frame, the old man sat down, unwitting that Iht curse he had for- 
bidden Martha to speak, was implied in his own denunciation. 

“ Let them laugh that win,” said Miss Jean: “ and the play is no 
played out yet, Sandy Muir. Where’s my guid siller?— anti wnere’s 
a' the books and papers 1 furnished to jon lawyer chield, to make 
out your prodigal’s claim? Weel, he’s dead— he has nae claim noo 
— and 1 crave, to ken wha’s the heir?” 

“ His son,” said Martha, distinctly. 

“ His son! — wha’s his son? He was naething hut a bit cailanfc 
himsel. Ay, Sandy, my man, ye thought little of my* skill in folks* 
lives; he tboclit Jean Calder would have tlirissels growing ower her 
ain head, or ever there came a gray hair in Harry Muir’s! What 
are ye saying till'l noo, Sandy? No uncle to a laird noo -uncle to 
naething but six feet of grass and a lieadstane! 1 saw him ance 
wi’ his hair fleeing in the wind, and his laugh that ye could have 
heard it half a mile off, and me hirphng on my staff, wi' never ane 
looking ower their shonther at me. 1 kent then in my heart, that 
auld as I was 1 would see him dead! — and it’s true this day. Lad, 
may 1 sit down? I’ve come for my siller.” 

Lindsay put a chair lo ward her silently, and she half fell into it, 
half voluntarily seated herself, Po >r respectable Macalister stood 
aghast, afiaid ot her wrinkled face, and the wild gleam in her 
frosty eyes. Mai tha, pressing her foot upon the ground as if she 
crushed something under it, and clinching her hands together, till 
the pain of them mingled with ‘he burning pain in her heart, bent 
down her head and kept silence; while Uncle Bandy, elevating him- 
self With a simple indignant dignity, seemed about to speak several 
times, but for a sob which choked him, and which he would not 
have Miss Jean hear. 

“I’ve come tor my siller U* repeated Miss Jean, stamping her 
foot upon the ground, to give her words emphasis. “ What do ye 
ca’ this woman? It’s Martha, is’t? Weel, there’s little about her 
for on y body to envie, if it binna her bombazine. Ye would gie a 
lmntie tor the yard o’ that now? 1 wonder ye had the heart— a’ off 
the prodigal callant’s estate, and cheating f o' Iv that lie’s awn law- 
ful siller to. And it’s no as if ye were a young lassie either, or ane 
to be s t oft wi’ the like o’ tli.ie vanities. I wonder a woman come 
to your years doesna think shame!” 

*’ Listen, Auntie Jean,” said Martha, suddenly raising herself 
and speaking quick, as if to keep the resolution which she had 
brought to this pitch: “There is nothing to he tnvied in me. 1 
have neither youth, nor good looks, nor happiness -and never had! 


HARRA MUIR. 


215 



lou may deal with me on equal terms: 1 am able to give you as 
much as you have hitherto got tor this money of yours. J want it. 
and you want the income from it— give it to me if you choose: if 
you do not choose, withdraw it at once, without another word. 
This is all 1 have to say to you. I will be glad it you take it away* 
aud make me tree of the connection of your name; but 1 will change - 
no arrangement willingly. Now, take your choice; and you, sir 
do the same. This is all I have to say.” 

And Martha, turning her eyes from them, loosed to Uncle Sandy, 
who kept his fixed upon Miss Jean, and was still painfully compos- 
ing himself to answer her. 

“ No,” said the old woman with a malignant, feeble langh, 

“ there s naethiug to envie in you. 1 was a different looking woman - 
to you in my young days, Martha Muir; but there was never a well- 
far ’d bit a> out you a’ your life, aud a temper like the auld enemy. 

I wish you nae ill. I wadna gang put < f my gate to do either gude 
or ill to the tike of you, for 1 dinna think ye’re worth my pains; 
but mony’s the bonnie lad, and mony’s the bonnie lass I've seen 
liame to the mools, that took their divert off me —and mony a ane 
I’ll see yet, for a’ that sneck-drawing hypocrite says.” 

“ Ay,” said Martha, “ the comely, and the blithe, and the hope- 
ful die away. The like of us that it would be a charity, to tatte out 
of this world, live all our days, and come to grav hairs. Ay, 
auDlie, the bairns are dying night and morning— the like of us lives 
on!” 

“ Biff bless the bairns, Martha— bless them whom the Master was 
at pains to bless,” cried Uncle Sandy, his eyes shining through 
tears. 44 1 am old, too, and have seen sorrow; but God preserve 
and bless the gladness of the bairns!” 

“ le’re but a bairn yourself, Sandy Muir,” said Miss Jean, cast- 
ing upon hitn a halt-angrv, halt-imbecile glance out of her wander- 
ing eyes; “ and I’ve gien Mr. Macei a n.issive about your twa hun- 
dred pounds. AYhat^does the like o’ you want wi’ silleiV and your 
grand house and gaiden, my bonnie man, and a’ the young, iight- 
headed gilpies ye train up to vanity? We'll just see Low muckle 
the wives and the weans will mind about you in Avr, when ve’re 
gaun trae door to door wi’ a mealpock and a staff; but ye need 
never seek frae me.” 

The old man rose with some dignitv: “ Martha, my woman, this 
does not become } 7 oii and me,” said Uncle Sandy, 44 we that have 
grief and the hand of God upon us, are no more to sutler railing 
than to return it. These folks have heard what ye had to say, and 
you’re no a person of two minds, or many words. Let us go back 
to our sorrowful house, aud our bereaved bairns, with "neither 
malice nor curse in onr hearts, leaving the ill-will with' them that 
it comes from. Ye can hear their answer, Martha, from the gen- 
tlemen. Ye have said what ye had to say.” 

Almost mechanically Martha rose to obey him, and took the old 
man’s arm. But after she had left her scat and taken a few steps 
toward the door, whither Uncle Sandy hastened her with tremulous 
speed, she turned round— perhaps only to speak to Lindsay who 
followed them, perhaps to look again at the old miserable woman, 




HARRY MUIR. 


216 

who si ill wa« of her own blood, and had scarcely a nearer relative 
than lierseU in the whole world. ... 

“ I’ve come from Ayr on the lap o’ the coach, my lane, said .Miss 
Jean, suddenly relapsing, as she did sometimes, into the natural 
passive state of age, which forgot in an instant the emotions which 
•had animated the poor exhausted skeleton irame. “If it hadna 
been a decent lad that paid the odds of ibe cliatge, and put me in 
the inside atween this and Falkirk, I’m sure I wad have been per- 
ished wf the cauld, and never ane of you offering a puir auld 
woman a morsel to keep her heart, i heard from Mr. Macer, in 
Stirling, there was to be a meeting here the day, and 1 thought my 
canniest plan was to take my fit in hand, and trust nane of thae 
slidderv writers. But, man, miclit ye no be mending t lie fire the 
time ye're glowering at me? the tane’s as easy as the titlier, and 
there’s as mony coals yonder standing in the scoop as wou'il fill mv 
bunker, and baud me gaun half the year. Coals maun be cheap 
here away, and I wadna scruple to make a bleeze, if you’re sure the 
lum’s clean; but 1 aye keep a frugal fire at harne: I’m a very care- 
ful woman, Sandy, do ye ken ony place here awa where an auld 
body could get a sina’ cheap meal? I’m very moderate in my eat- 
ing mysel, but travel appetizes even a trail person like me; and 
what was yon he was saying about the siller?’’ 

Lind-ay* repeated what Mariha had said in a few words. Mr. 
Lindsay did not by any means admire this occupation of his office. 
But Miss Jean’s eyes wandered to Martha, who still stood looking 
on, and holding her uncle’s arm. 

“ She's no muckle to look at,” said the old woman, bending her 
shriveled face forward. “ but I’ve heard the voice she speaks wi’ 
afore, and it’s no like a tremd v^Ice. Canua ye tell me what ye 
said about the siller yoursel’, instead of standing there like a stane 
figure? and sit down and be quiet, liouesl man, now ye have gotten 
on the coals.” 

This was addressed to Macalister, who very humbly, and with a 
look of fright at Lindsay, bad replenished the fire at Miss Jean’s 
command. Be now obeyed her again, with instant submission, 
feeling himself a very small person, and altogether forgetful of his 
imaginary grandeur. 

Martha repeated her former words, where she stood, holding the 
arm of Uncle Sandy —and Uncle Sandy, still perceptibly trembling, 
averted bis bead with a simple pride and dignity, and held Martha’s 
arm closely in his own, as it with an impulse of protection. 

“ As lang as ye gie me fifty pounds by the year, ye can keep the 
siller till 1 hear ot mair for it,” said Miss Jean, ut last; “ but where 
ane favors ye, and does ye charity, ye might show a decent respect. 
Woman, there’s the like o’ you that never was weel-favored nor 
yet young, nor had as guid a wit in your haill bulk as 1 liae in my 
little finger: but ane bows to ye, and anither gies ye a baud o’ their 
arm, and a’ body civil, as if ye were something — when ye’re naeth- 
ing but a single woman, without a penny in your purse, and need- 
ing to work tor your bread day by day. But never ane, it it binna 
whiles a stranger, like him that put me in the inside of the coach 
says a guid-e’en or a guid-day to me; and when I’m useless wi! 
my journey, it’s no apples and flagons to keep my heart, but fetch 


HARRY MUIR. 



217 


log and contentions that 1 never could bide— for a’ body turns on 
me. ’ ’ 

And the poor old woman mumbled and sobbed, and put up a 
great dingy handkerchief to her eyes. 

Uncle Sandy's offense was gone — he could not see a semblance of 
distress without an effort to relieve it. 

*.* I’ll take ye in a coach to a decent place, Miss Jean,” said Alex- 
ander Muir, “ aud bid them take care of ye, and see ye safe liame, 
and be at all the charges, it you’ll just think upon your evil ways, 
and take tent to youi ain life, aud harm the young and- the heedless 
nae mair.” 

“ lie thinks I’m a witch, the auld haverel,” said Miss Jean, look- 
ing up with a harsh laugh; “but never you heed, ^andy, we’li 
gree; and ye can tell the folk to take me an inside place in the 
coach, and I'll take care mysel' to see they settle for a’ thing, and 
I’ll gang away the morn; so ye can gie them the siller- -or I’ll take 
charge of it aud pay them mysel’ — it's a’ the same to me.” 


CHAPTER U 

All men make faults, and even I in this! 
Authorizing thy trespass with compare, 
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss. 
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are. 


Shakespeare. 


And Martha had to meet lesser creditors to whom Harry owed 
smaller amounts for tiitles of his own wardrobe, ot furniture, and 
other iuc. usiderable things But l he sum they came to altogether 
was tar from incousideiable. Uncle Saudy, wlio steadily attended 
&D(J supported her, whs grieved sonieii.nes by the bittei fiud luirsli 
passion with which she received 'the faiutest word which implied 
blame of Harry. In every other particular Martha appeared a 
chastened aud sober woman; in this tne tire and pride oi her nature 
blazed with an unchecked fierceness which grieved the gentler 
spirit W thin himself there was something also wdiicli sprung up 
wish instinctive haste to detend the memory ot Harry; but Martha’s 
nervous impatience of the most remote implied blame, and the head- 
long fiery passion with which the threw herself upon anv one who 
attempted this, made tire old man uneasy. And people who en- 
countered Martha’s anger did not know its strange, inconsistency, 
nor could have believed how well she was aware ot Harry's faults, 
or how in her heart she condemned tnem; but Martha had devoted 
her life to restore to Harry’s memory the honor he had lost iu his 
person aud whoso struck at him. struck at her very life. 

They were talking home on their return— for the carnage was 
already sold— and John, who had not yet got another plact, cairied 
their little traveling-bags behind them. It was a blight November 
dav not very cold, but clear and beautiful, and Ihe sunshine lay 
calmly like a glory on the head of Demeyet, crowning lum against 
his will though even he bore the honor more meekly than in ilie 
dazzlin^ days of summer. The air was so clear, that you could see 
the while houses clustering at his feet, and hear the voices ot distant 


218 


HARRY MUIR. 






farm-yards on every side, miles away, making a continual sound 
over the country, which seemed to lie m a silent trauce ot listening: 
and fioui ihis little height which the road descends, you can see the 
blue smoke of Allenders curiing over the bare tiees, and make out 
that t he sunshine glances upon some bright childish heads under the 
stripped walnut on the lawn. Uncle Sandy, looking toward it. 
piays gentle prayers in his heart— prays to the God of the father- 
less, the widow, the distressed — to llim who blessed the children in 
Ilis arms, and wept with the sisters of the dead; and has his good 
heart lightened and comforted, knowing who it is to whom he has 
in faith committed the charge ot these helpless ones; and the old 
man has a smile upon his face, and many a word of tender kind- 
ness in his Heart, to comfort the “ bairns ” at home— lor they are 
all bairns to him. 

But other thoughts burn at the heart of Martha, as she walks on- 
ward by his side. Unawares and unconsciously her soul shudders 
at the suusliine— bates with fierce impatience the voices and cheer- 
ful hum of ordinary life, which grow audible as they approach 
Maidlin, and shrinks from returning home — home, where that one 
vacant place and absent voice, makes her heart desolate forever. 
Through her bitter repinings. Miss Jean’s exultation passes with a 
ghastly terror, and Martha shivers to think that this unholy age 
may come upon her, and has her heart full of Questionings almost 
irnpiou*. That this old woman, envious, degraded and miserable, 
should be spared in the earth t6 see many a hopeful head laid low: 
that poor old Dragon, basking in the sunshine, should live on from 
day to day, and see the children die; that she herself should remain, 
and Harry be taken away. Martha said, “ Why? why? ’ and 
groaned within herself, and was burdened, bating the very licht, 
and shr nking with burning impatieuce from the respectful looks 
and half spoken sympathies of these cottar women at Maidlin Cross. 
Sne' could not accept sympathy; she turned away with loathing 
from all except those who immediately shared her sorrow; and even 
them she bore with sometimes painfully — for who could understand 
her grief? 

A blasting fiery unblessed grief burning lier heart like a tempest 
— and a sullen gloom came over Martha’s face as she averted her 
head, and walked on steadily, closing her ears to the p’easant nat- 
ural sounds which seemed to crowd upon her with so much greater 
distinctness than usual, that they chafed her disturbed mind into 
very fury. “ The spirit ot the Lord left Saul, and an evil spirit 
from the Lord troubled him.” It was so with Martlia now. 

Little Mary Paxton has been learning to-day to make a courtesy — 
for she is to g to school for the first time to-moriow; and her big 
sister, Mysie, says the young ladies courtesy when they enter the 
school room at Blaelodge. Mary has blue eyes, little ruddy lips, 
always parted by tw T o small white teeth, which appear between them; 
and cheeks, which the sun has ripenef, according to his pleasure, 
all the summer through. In her little woolen frock and clean blue 
pinafore, Mary has been practicing her new acquirement at the 
Cross. She is only four years old, and has a license which the elder- 
children have not; so little Mary rises up from the step of the Cross 
on which she has just seated herself tor a rest, and coming forward 


HARRY MUIR. 


219 

be: small step, pauses suddenly on the Boad before Martha, 
folds her little bare hands on her breast, and looking up with the 
sweet frank childish tace, and the two small teeth fully revealed by 
her smile of innocent satisfaction, makes her little courtesy to the 
lady, and stands still to be approved with the confidence of her 
guileless years. 

Upon Martha’s oppressed heart this falls like a blow under which 
she staggers, scarcely knowing for the moment from whence > lie 
shock comes. Suddenly standing still, and grasping at the old man’s 
arm to support herself, she looks at the child— the child who lifts 
up her sweet little simple face, with its smiling parted lips and 
sunny eyes, and look of perfect trust and innocence. Little Mary 
wits not that there are in the world such despairs and bitternesses 
as blind the very heart in Martha’s breast; and Martha’s breast 
heaves with a great sob as this sudden stroke falls upon her. The 
old woman’s haggard face, with its ghostly triumph, disappears 
from her mind — Lerselt, heavy with the grief, which is greater than 
every other, passes away from her relieved sight. Standing still in 
perfect silence, a sudden burst of natural emotion which sweeps 
away all evil things before it, falls upon her as from the skies— a 
strong revulsion, like the witched mariner: 

“ O happy living things! no tongue 
. Their beauty might declare, 

A spring of love gushed from my heart. 

And I blessed them unaware: 

Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 

And I blessed them unaware.” 

The tears came in floods irrestrainable to Maltha’s ej'es, and with 
anothei long sob, she snatched up the child in her arms, kissed its 
little innocent, surprised face, and coveiing her own with her veil, 
hurried away. But she had blessed them unaware— blessed all 
God’s creatures out of a full heart. acquiesciDg in that mysterious 
lave which apporlions all things; and the natural sounds and sights 
were gall to her no longer, and the burden ft 11 from her neck. All 
the way home she hid her tears, and restrained the sound of her 
weeping so far as possible; but Uncle Sandy saw and wondered, 
that Martha was indeed weeping like a child. 

Two days after, Uncle Sandy with his family went to Ayr. They 
were to stay a month. Maltha said, and Agnes and Rose acquiesced 
very quietly. "W hat did it matter where these pensive, sorrowful 
days were spent? But Agnes went away, occupied with many little 
necessary cares for hei own delicate liealih, and for the children, 
who now had no maid to attend them; and Rose, charged with the 
care ot all the little party, had countless small solicitudes and re- 
sponsibilities to interest her, and could even sometimes escape with 
a sigh into her own dream -couutry, and be charmed into a grateful 
repose; while Lettie and Katie Calder could scarcely repress a cer- 
tain childish excitement in prospect of the journey, and were in 
their full enthusiasm about new stitches, and the work they were to 
do in Ayr to help Martha. All had some such new-awakened inter- 
est to relieve the strain of constant grief, as human creatures merci- 
fully find when God lays upon them the heaviest of His chastise- 
ments. But they went away, and left Martha with her one maid 


2 20 


HARRY MUIR. 


Mysie. and the poor old Dragon, in a house peopled with continual 
remind! is ot Harry— alone. 

And as she lay upon her bed awake, through these gloomy, soli- 
tary nisrhis, and dreamed of footsteps on the stair, and mysterious 
sighings through her silent room, ihe strong heart ot Martha trern- 
bhd. What.it the spirit hovering by her struggled in those inar- 
ticulate breathings to communicate something to the dull human 
sen e, which can not hear the delicate voices ont ot the unseen coun- 
try? What if Harry — the true Hariy — not him they laid under the 
sod in the church-yard ot Maidlin — was straining his grander spir- 
itual faculties by iiei side, to attain to the old mortal voice which 
only she could hear, and tell her what mercy God has communi- 
cate d to his soul, and wlier3 its dwelling was? And Martha held 
her breath and listened, and with a throb ot deeper grief was sensi- 
ble ot this thrill of fear which reminded her how great a gulf and 
separation lay now between her and the dead — a gulf before which 
the human spirit fainted, refusing *o front the forbidden mystery 
which yet its restless, curious thoughts assail on every side. But in 
the broad daylight many a time there seemed to Martlia an eye upon 
her which benumbed her like a spell — a conscious presence going 
with her as she went«ond came silting silent by her side, fixing upon 
her constantly this iascinating eye. 

Meanw hile everything extraneous was cleared away from their 
now simple and plain establishment. John was gone — and Mr. 
Buchanan’s money lodged in Ihe Stirling Bank restored credit and 
respectability to the steady and continuous care which began to rule 
over Harry's fields. At Martha’s years there is difficulty in learn- 
ing an altogether new occupation, and this was of itself distasteful 
and outre to a woman; but sometimes, though every one respected 
her presence, it happened that she heard indifferent people speak of 
“ poor Allenders,” of ttie “ warning ” of his death, as Gilbert called 
it, or of the shipwreck of his life. And this, which brought the 
burning blood to Martha’s face, inspired her with power to over- 
come every obstacle. Harry— who in her heart needed no name— he 
had been too long the acknowledged center there — it was to Martha 
the bitterest pain to speak of him to the uninterested and earth ss 
who, presuming on her mention of him, plied her with allusions to 
hei brother, till her impatient sorrow could have turned upon them, 
and struck them down even with a blow. But tven this Martha 
schooled hcrseli to bear —schooled herself to tell the men with 
whom her necessary business brought her into cnutact, that this 
was Harry's will and that his intention; that he had proposed this 
work, and that charity, which she was bound to carry out, and 
would. Gradually these people came to look upon him with a 
visionary reverence — this spirit of the dead whose intentions lived 
in a will so strong and unvarying; and his own weakness passed 
away, and was foi gotten, in the strength which placed itself, like a 
monument, upon his grave. 


HARRY MUIR. 


221 


CHAPTER LI. 

Here is no change but such as comes in me. 

Old Play. 

Maggie McGillivray clips no longer in the wintery sunshine at 
her mother’s door. Poor litile foolish girl, she has married a cot- 
ton-spinner, and at eighteen lias a baby, and many caies upon the 
head whii h used to stoop under the light as she sung the Lea 
Rig,” and clipped at her web. Anti Bessie McGillivray, who has 
succeeded Maggie, has no such heart lor either the work or the 
song, but drawls out the one dismally, and iules about the other, 
and thinks it would he a gnat rel !■ f to marry a cotton-spinner too, 
and have no more webs to clip— a fate which she will accomplish 
one ot these days. Anil Leslie is ‘ cauldufe, as her mother says, 
and prefers silting ai the fireside to-day, though the sunshine comes 
dow r n mellow and warm through the November log; so that the 
scene from Mrs. Rodger’s parlor window loses one of its mest pleas- 
ant features, when there is nothing to look to opposite, hut the idle 
light lying on the stones at Peter McGillivray’s door. 

Mrs." McG-irvie’s Tiger, still tawny and truculent, winks in the 
sun as he sits upon the pavement, contionting it with his fierce red 
eyes. But Mrs. McGarvie’s red-haired R b has gone to Port Philip 
to make his fortune in the hush, and pretty little Helen has under- 
gone the universal destiny, and is married. There is change every- 
where without — new names on the Port Dundas Road —new houses 
springing up about its adjacent streets; hut Mrs. Rodger’s parlor, 
where Agnes and Rose, ond L ncle baudy, with the childien, aic 
now assembled, though a long succession ot tenants have passed 
through it since they left it, remains still the same. 

And still the same is gaunt Mrs. Rodger in her widow’s cap 
genteel and grim, tenihle to tax gatherers, and innocent m< u of gas 
and water; and Miss Rodger, care-worn, faded and proud, arid t lie 
prim Miss Jeanie. But ' 4 Johnnie, in his chimney comer, has be- 
gun to he moved to better things than this perpetual id it ness; and 
though he has not reached so tar as to overcome himself, and Ins 
false’and unwholesome shame, he is approaching to this better state; 
and a <T.-at clumsy good-natmed lodger pays persevering '•our? to 
Miss Aggie. The hoyden is decidedly reluctant, and resists aud 
leiects him stoutly— but it is no use, for ihis is her late. 

And Agnes with the blight hair all hidden under her widow s 
cap sits down by the window with her baby in lor lap, and bending 
over it, attending to its wants, lets her tears fall silently upon its 
frock and on the little round arms which stretch up to her. till a 
violent paroxysm comes upon her, and she has to leave the infant 
to Rose aud stial away into the inner room 41 to compose herself 
as she says— in reality to sob and weep her strength away and be 
exhausted into composure. Poor litile unconscious child, up m 
whom this heavy baptism tnlM for now. one by one, over the little 
hands with which he strokes her cheek, s'eal the tears or Lose. > It 
was unwise of them to come here ; the place is too full of memories. 


HARRY MUIR. 


22 2 

By a way which Violet lias oNcd clambered up in the summer 
nights long ago, it is possible to reach the high held which, closely 
bordering upon Mrs. Rodger’s house, is level with the bed room 
-windows. Here in the dusk, when the night cold has scau ety set 
in, and one star trembles iu the misty sky, strays Lettie’s friend, 
Mr. John, pondering over many things; and here comes little 
thoughtful Let tie, to search the old corners, where she used to find 
tlum, for one remaining gowan, and keep it as a memorial of t his 
place’ which is like home. From the edge of the field you can look 
sheer down upon the road with its din and constant population, 
and upon the lights gleaming scantdy in those little nooks of streets 
about the Cowcaddens, where Violet knows every shop. From t lie 
other end of the field, close upon the dangerous brink where it 
makes abrupt and precipitous descent into a great quarry, comes 
the sound of those distinct measured strokes, btoken l»y continual 
exclamations and laughter, with which two stout servants luat a 
carpet. The dust is out of it long ago, but still t Heir rods resound 
in quick time on either side, and their voices chime iu unison; and 
now they trail it over the dark fragrant grass, and stealing to the 
edge call to the passengers below, who start and look around in 
amazement, and would nat discover whence the voice comes, but 
for the following laugh, which reveals the secret. And by and by 
a “ lad ” or two, and some passing mill girls, scramble up the 
broken ascent which communicates with the road; and often will 
llie mistress look from her door iu dismay, and the master rail tiom 
the window, before Jauet and Betsy lift llieir carpet lrom the grass, 
and recollect that it is “ a’ the hours of the niclit,” and that there 
are a hundred things to do when ihey return. 

But Lettie puts her hand softly into Mr. John’s hand, and begins 
to answer, with many tears, his questions about Harry; and tells 
him how Martha is to do everything that Harry wanted to be done, 
and that they are all to work at the “ opening,” aDd Katie Cahler 
is to stay at A1 lenders; but neither of them are to go to school at 
Blaelodge anv more. Violet dogs not quite know what makes her 
so confidential, and has a compunction even while she speaks, and 
thinks Martha would not be ph ased— but yet she speaks on. 

“ And we re all to be busy and work at the opening; for Martha 
says we need not think shame,” said Lettie; “and Katie and me 
will be able to help to keep the house, Mi. John; and Rose says it’s 
better” to work than be idle, and it keeps away ill thoughts; but 1 
like best to think its lane, without working, or to read books — 
only I’ve read all the books in Allendeis, and I’m no to be idle any 
more.” 

“ You see I’m aye idle yet, Lettie,” said John. 

“ Oil yes; but then you never need — and you’ve aye been,” said 
Lettie, hastily! for to Lettie Mr. John was an institution, and bis 
Idleness was part of himself — a thing be.yoml discussion, and un- 
changeable. 

But a burning blush came over John Rodger’s face in the dark- 
ness, and Lettie saw instinctively that his feelings were wounded. 
This brought upon her a strange embarrassment; and while anx- 
iously casting about tor something to say, which should change this 


HARRY MUIR. 






painful subject, slie fell into a sliy silence— which was only broken 
at last by Mr. Jolm himself. 

“ JSo, Lottie, 1 have’ not been always idle, and 1 have need,” said 
the roused man; ” and when 1 hear a little tlnng like you speaking: 
about -woik, and helping to keep a house, it makes me think shame 
of mvself. Lettie. "You and your sisters, that might be so different,, 
working lor your bread — and me this way!” 

“ AyT but Miss Jeanie and Miss Aggie work more than we do,” 
said Lettie, simply. 

For always it is the angel from heaven, miraculous and strange, 
an t not the daily revelations of Moses and the prophets. which these 
bewitched natures think will rouse them. Miss Jeanie and Miss 
Aggie, with all their little vanities, had hearts sincire in this point, 
and full of gracious unconscious humility. Ihey never reminded 
the idler that they worked for him; never thought that they were- 
pinched and restrained, in the ostentations they held so dear, be- 
cause ” Johnnie ” hung a burden on their hands; never speculated, 
indeed, ou the question at all, nor dreamed of giving reasons to- 
themselves for the spontaneous natural impulse, which made this 
•self-sacrifice unawares. And he hints- It never realized it eituer; but 
he was struck with the devotion of Martha and her houshold. This, 
unusual, stiange— a thing he did not see every day— moved him- 
the oilier had scarcely occur! ed to him when Lettie spoke. 

They left GHasgow the next day; tor neither Agnes nor IP se 
could bear to remain in this house, so familiar to them of old; aud 
they did not retain to Mir. Rodger’s on their way home; but when 
Miss Aggie married the lumbering lodger, and came t > be settled on 
the o hei side of the Firth, at Alloa, and received her sister as a. 
visitor, Miss Jeanie made a pilgrimage lo Alleuders, and told 
tnem, with tears in her eyes, that Johnnie, now a clerk with a Port 
Dundas met chant, had said to her, that she should never want whilo 
he 1m l anything, aud had given her money to buy the expensive 
unsuitable upper garment she wore. Poor Miss Jeanie. with her 
vanities and simplicities, never discovered that he owid her grati- 
tude; but lor these words of kindness she was tearfully grateful to 
him. 

The month at Ayr passed very quietly. In this winter weather 
Uncle Pan iy’s little company ot workers could no longer visit the 
leatless garden; and though there was sometimes a great fire made 
in the K.tchen, and a special lamp lighted for them, yet their own 
fireside, the old man thought, was the most suitable place lor them 
now. So the family weie almost perfectly alone; left to compose 
themselvis inlo those quiet days which were but the beginning ol a 
subdued aud chastened lite. And Uncle Sandy did for them now, 
what Martha was wont to do through the teirihle time which pre- 
ceded Harry’s death. He read to them sometimes— sometimes he 
Was himself their book and reader; and from his long experience, 
the youno- hearts, fainting under this gieat sorrow, learned how 
many trials life can live through, and were unwillingly persuaded 
that the present affliction would not kill them, as they sometimes 
hoped it might; but must lighten, perhaps must pass away. Rut. 
they clunf the closer to iheir sorrow, and defied the very chance or 
returning” gladness; and Agues cut away the curls ot her bright 


224 , 


HARRY MUIR. 


hair, and said she woald wear ihis widow's cap liei whole life 
through; and Rose grew sick at sounds of laughter, and believed 
she would never smile again. 


CHAPTER LII. 

A gloomy piece this morning with it brings; 

The sun for sorrow will not show his head. 

Romeo and Juliet. 

It was December, cold and dreaiy, when the family returned to 
Alleuders. Their very return was a renewal of the lust sorrow to 
hi th themselves and Martha They came, and Hairy was not there 
to welcome them; they had never before felt so bitterly his absent 
place; they came, but Hurry came not. with them — and Martha’s 
very voice of welcome was choked with her anguish for the dead. 

There had been much discussion with Uncle Sandy, whom they 
weie all anxious to induce to return to Alleuders, and remain with 
them there. The old man did not consent. Reluctant as he was to 
be separated from them now, his own o d house and neighborhood 
were parts of his geuile nature, fie could not leave them — cou let 
not relinquish his universal charge of “ the bairns,” nor deprive his 
young embroiderers of the air and sunshine, to which no one else 
might think of admitting them. So Uncle Sandy brought his 
charge to Glasgow, and bade them an affectionate farewell, promis- 
ing a yearly visit to Alleuders; hut he could not give up his little 
solitary home. 

They sett lea immediately into the monotonous and still order of 
their future life. Martha’s room, where tin re were few things to 
suggest painful remembrances, they made a little work-room; and 
here Agnes and Rose sat by the window at their work, and Lettie 
giud her little companion learned their lessons, and labored with 
varying industry— now enthusiastic— now slack and languid, at the 
“opening,” in which they were soon skilled. And Martha, return- 
ing wearied from business out of doors, or in the library, came up 
lieie to take off: her outei wrappings, and begin to the'other labor 
which called for her. And Lettie on the carpet, and Katie on her 
litile stool, kept up a running conversation, which sometimes gave 
a passing moment of amusement to ti e sadder elder hearts; and lit- 
tle Harry played joyously, beguiling his sad young mother into mo- 
mentary smiles: and the babv began to totter on his little feet, and 
make daring journeys from the arms of Martha into his mother’s; 
and gradually there grew to be a certain pensive pleasure in their 
evening walk, and they roused themselves to open the window, 
when the little Leith steamer shot past under the trees; and every 
day filled itself with its own world ot duty, and passed on— slowly, 
it is true— but less drearily than at the first. 

No one grudged now, nor mixed iil-teeling in the emulation, with 
which neighboring agriculturists wa-ched the fields of Allendirs. 
Somi thing of tea i and sob inn awe startled the very laborers in these 
fields when Martha passed ill m, assiduous and diligent in all the 
work she set herself to do. They were not afraid of Air— she did 
aot impress them with more Hum tire respect which they gave will- 


HARRY MUIR. 


$25 


ingly as her right; hut there was something solemn in a represent- 
ative of the’dead — a person living, as it. seemed, but to carry out 
the thoughts and wishes of another who had passed away. The stir 
and thrill of renewed and increased industry came again upon Maid- 
lin Cross. It was true they had no mociel cottages yet, but the land 
lay marked out on the other side of the cross, where Harry’s new 
houses were to be; and Armstrong thought Miss Allenders had an- 
swered him almost fiercely, when he proposed to plow this land, 
and inclose it in a neighboring field. No — it was Harry’s will those 
houses should be built, and built they must be, when justice and 
right permitted; and it soon came to be known in Maidlin, wneie 
Harry in his careless good-humor had promised anything without 
bestowing it, that it needed but a hint of this to Martha to secure 
the favor. And the works went on steadily and prosperously, and 
with a wise boldness Martha drew upon Mr. Buchanan’s thousand 
pounds. Armstrong, no longer driven to the sad alternative of do- 
mg nothing, or acting on his own responsibility, became embold- 
ened, and was no longer afraid to be now and then responsible: and 
Allendei Mains became a great farm-steading, and began to send off 
droves to Stirling market, and Falkirk tryste, and was managed as 
the cautious Armstrong never could have managed it, had all this 
gainful risk and expenditure been incurred for himself. 

And on the Sabbath days when they leave the church, 'Agnes in her 
widow’s weeds leaning on Martha’s arm, and Rose leading the chil- 
dren— -they turn aside to a little space railed off from the wall, where 
molders the mossed gravestone of the old Laird of Allenders, and 
where the gowans and forget-me-nots grow sweetly under the spring 
sunshine upon Harry’s breast. His name is on a tablet of white 
marble on the wall— his name and age— nothing more. They go 
there silently— almost as it seems involuntarily— toward their grave, 
and stand in silence by the railing, visiting the dead, but saying 
nothing to each other; and after a little while, as silently as they 
came, the family go away. Nor do they ever allude to this visit, 
though the custom is never broken through— it is something sacred, 
a family solemnity, a thing to be done in silence. 

And the ladies of Nettleliaugh and Foggo do not disdain now to 
call on Mrs. and Miss Allenders, nor even Miss Dunlop, though she 
stands upon her dignity, and has heard a secret whisper that these 
hands she condescends to shake, work at her collars and handker- 
chiefs, and earn bread by tlieir labor. But at the end of the dining- 
room beside Cuthbert’s window, some preparations were begun lung 
ago tor the erection of that conservatory which Miss Dunlop recom- 
mended to Harry— and to her mother’s consternation, Mi>s Dunlop 
makes cool inquiries about it, and presumes they do not intend to 
carry it out now. Martha answeis with a blank gravity which she 
has learned to assume, to cover the pang with which she mentions 
his name, that other more important wishes of Harry’s have to be 
carried out before she can come to this; but that wbat he intended 
shall be done without fail, and that it only waits a suitable time. 
“ They say that Heaven loves those that die young,' says Martha, 
with a grave simplicity, “ yet the dead who die in their youth leave 
many a hope and project unfulfilled-and few have been so full of 
projects, and had so little time to work them out. 

8 - ■ - - -H, 


HARRY MUIR. 


226 

This is nil— but Miss Dunlop, bewildered and conscience-stricken, 
dares scarcely speak agaiD of the fickle weakness of poor Allenders, 
and all his vain, magnificent aspirations, and eilorts to be great. 
She has a vague impression that she has blundered in lur hasty esti- 
mate of poor Harry, and that it was indeed because his sun went 
down at noon that none of his great intentions ripened into success 
— for no one ventures to prophesy failure to Harry’s purposes now. 

And Cuthbert comes when he can spare a day — conies 10 bring 
them news of the far-away world whose vexed and troubled mur- 
murs they never hear, and to receive with affectionate sympathy, all 
they tell him of their own plans and exertions. Cuthbert is admitted 
to the w r ork-room, and takes out Agnes and Bose to their nightly 
walk, upon which Martha, who, hereelf actively employed, has no 
need of this, insists; and Agnes leans upon him as on a good and 
gentle brother; and there comes a strange ease and repose to Rose’s 
heart as she walks shyly by his side in the twilight, saying little, 
but preserving with a singular tenacity of recollection everything 
the others say. And Rose, waking sometimes now to her old per- 
sonal grief — a thing whch seems dead, distant and selfish, under the 
shadow of this present sorrow — lecollects that Martha’s “ capital ” 
is from Mr. Buchanan— that Cuthbert is his favorite nephew, and 
that there may be truth yet in the story which fell like a stone upon 
her heart. But Rose only speculates unawares upon these individ- 
ual anxieties— they seem to her guilty, and she is ashamed to harbor 
them — yet still unconsciously she looks for Cuthbert ’s coming, and 
when he comes grows abstracted and silent, and looks like a shy, 
incompetent girl, instead of the fair, sweet-hearted woman into 
whose fuller form and maturity her youth develops day by day. 
Yet Cuthbert’s eyes are witched and charmed, and he has a strangely 
correct understanding of every shy, half-broken word she says; and 
Rose would stare, and wonder, and scarcely believe, in her timid 
unconscious humility, could she see how these broken words remain 
in Cuthbert’s heart. 


CHAPTER L1I1. 

I am a very foolish, fond old man, 

Fourscore and upward. 

King Lear. 

“ 1 was born this day fourscore and five years ago, ” said Dragon. 
“It’s a great age, bairns, and what few folk live to Bee; and for 
every appearance that’s visible to me, 1 may live ither ten, Missie, 
and never ane be a prin the waur. I would like grand mysel’ to 
make out the bunder years, and it w r ould be a credit to the place, 
and to a’ belonging till’t; and naebody wishes ill to me nor envies 
me lor my lang life. Just you look at tnat arm, Missie; it’s a stioug 
arm for a man o’ eighty-five.” 

And Dragon stretched out his long thin arm, and snapped the 
curved brown fingers— poor old Dragon! Not a child in Maidlin 
Cross but could have overcome the decayed power which once had 
knit those loose joints, and made them a strong man’s arm; but 
Dragon waved it in the air exultingly, and was proud of his age and 


HARRY MUIR. 


227 


strength, and repeated again with earnestness: “ But 1 would like 
grand to make out the hunder year.” 

Lettie, now a tall girl of fifteen, stood by Dragon’s stair, arrang- 
ing flowers, a great number of which lay before her on one of the 
steps. They were all wild flowers, of taint soft color and sweet 
odors, and Lettie was blending hawthorn and primroses, violets and 
cowslips, with green sprigs of the sweetbrier, and here and there an 
early half-opened wild rose— blending them with the greatest care 
and devotion; while Katie Calder, developed into a stout little come- 
ly woman-like figure, stood by, looking on with half contempt; for 
Katie already had made a superb bouquet of garden flowers, and 

was carrying it reverentially in her apron. , f 

“ it’s five vears this dav since Mr. Hairy came first to Allenders, 
continued the old man, “and it’s mair than three since they laid 
him in his grave. The like o' him — a young lad! and just to look 

at the like o' me!” ... . . 

“ But it was God’s pleasure, Dragon,” said Lettie, pausing in her 
occupation, while the shadow which stole over her face bore wit- 
ness that Harry’s memory had not passed away even from her girl s 

^“Ay, Missie,” said the old man vacantly; “ do ye think the spirit 
gaed willingly away? I’ve thought upon that mony a time when I 
was able to daunder up bye to the road, and see the farm; and it s 
my belief that Mr. Hairy will never get right rest till a’s done of the 
guid he wanted to do, and a’s undone o’ the ill he did— that s my 
belief. 1 think mysel’ he canna get lying quiet in his grave tor 
minding of the work he left to do; and if there was ane here skilled 
to discern spirits, he might be kent in the fields. What makes the 
lady sae constant at it, think ye, night and morning, putting to her 
ain hand to make the issue speedier, it it’s no that she kens about 
him that’s aye waiting, " aiting, and never can enter into Ins rest. 

Lettie let her flowers fall, and looked away with a mysterious 
glance into the dark shade of the trees; for the vague awe of poetic 

superstition was strong upon Lettie still 

•* Dragon ” she said in a very low voice, 1 used ro think 1 heard 
Harrv sneak, crying on me, and his footstep in his owu room, and 
on the stair; and all the rest thought that too, for I have seen them 
start and listen many a time, thinking it was Harry. Do ye think 
it could be true? Do ye think, Dragon, it could be Harry? for I 
came to think it was just^ because he was aye in our mind that we 

fancied every sound was him.’ , 

“ Ane can never answer tor the dead,” said the poor old Diagon. 
“ Ane kens when a living person speaks, for ve can aye pit out your 
baud and touch them, and see that they’re by your side; but I pit 
out my hand here, Missie-it’s a clear air to me-but for aught I 
ken an angel in white raiment may be standing on my stairhead, 
and anither within my door, laying a mark in the Book yonder that 
1 may open it the night at ae special verse, and read that .and nae 
ithe/ How is the like o’ me to ken? And you 11 no tell me that 
Mr Hairy winna stand by the bride the morn and be the hrst voice 
to wish her ioy, though w e may ue’er hear what lie says. 

With a slight ti enable, Violet, putting away her flowers leaned 
upon the step, and looked again into the darkening shadow of the 


HARRY MUIR. 


228 

trees; and Lettie tried to think, and to pray in her simplicity that 
her eyes might be opened to discern the spirits, and that she might 
see Harry, ft he were here. But again the mortal shrunk from the 
visible immortality, and Lettte covered her eyes with a thrill of vis 
ionary fear 

“ Dragon, look at Lettie's flowers,” said Katie Calder; ‘ she 
v; ants to" put them on the table, where the minister’s to stand, instead 
of all the grand ones out of Lady Dunlop’s; andl never saw such 
grand floweis as Lady Dunlop's, Dragon.” 

“ The dew never falls on Ifoem” said Lettie, starting to return to 
her occupation; “and if you were in the room in the dark, you 
would never know they were there; but i gathered this by the 
Lady’s Well, and this was growing at the foot of the srone where 
Lady Violet sat, and the brier and the hawthorn out of that grand 
hedge, Dragon, where a’ the flowers are; and it 1 put them on the 
table in the'dark, the wee lairy that Dragon kens, will tell the whole 
house they’re there; but Lady Dun lops have no breath— and mine 
are far liker Rose.” 

As Lettie speaks, some one puts a hand over her shoulder, and 
lifting her flowers, raises them up very close to a glowing radiant 
face; and Dragon, hastily getting up from the easy chair on his 
stair-head, jerks his dangling right arm upward toward the brim of 
the low rusty old hat, which he wears always. It is only persons of 
great distinction whom Dragon so far honors, aad Dragon has for- 
gotten “yon birkie,” in his excited glee about the approaching 
wedding, and his respect for the ” groom.” 

“Very right, Lettie,” sad tihe bridegroom, with a little laugh 
which has a tremble in it; “ they are far liker Rose. And will you 
be able to come to the gate to-morrow, Dragon, and see me carry 
the flower of Allenders away?” 

“ But ye see, my man,” said Dragon, eagerly, shuffling about his 
little platform, as lie looked down bn Cutlibert, “ 1 never had her 
about me or among my hands, when she was a little bairn* and if 
it was either missie there, or the ither ane, I would have a greater 
miss; for lve gotten into a way o’ telling them stories, and gieing 
a word of advice to the bit things, and training them the way they 
should go; so they’re turned just like bairns o’ my ain. But I wish 
Miss Rose and you muekle joy, and increase and prosperity, and 
that ye may learn godly behavior, and be douce heads of a family; 
and that’s the warst wish that’s in my head, though you are taking 
ane of the family away, and 1 never was married mysel’.” 

And Cuthbert, responding with another joyous laugh, shook 
hands with Dragon, after a manner somewhat exhausting to the 
loose arm, of whose strength the old man had boasted, and imme- 
diately went away to the water-side, to take a meditative walk along 
its banks, and smile at himself for his own exuberant boyish joy. 
{Serious and solemn had been many of the past occasions on which 
he had visited Allenders; and now, ns the fulrillment of all his old 
anticipations approached so certainly, so close at hand, Cuthbert’s 
moved heart turned to Harry — poor Harry 1 whose very name had 
a charm in it of mournful devotion and love! 

The sun shone in next morning gayly to the rooms of Allenders, 
pow suddenly awakened as out of a three years’ sleep; and Agnes 


HARRY MUIR. 


229 


* 

curls her bright hair, and lets the sunshine glow upon it as she 
winds it round her fingers, and with a sigh, lays away the widow's 
cap, which would not be suitable, she thinks, on Rose’s wed- 
ding-day; but the sigh is a long-drawn breath of relief— and with 
an innocent satisfaction, Agnes, blooming and youthful still, sees 
her pretty curls fall again upon her cheek, and puts on her new 
white gown. It is a pleasant sensation, and her heart rises un- 
awares, though this other sigh parts her lips. Poor Harry! his little 
wife will think of him to-day. 

Think and weep, but only witn a serene and gentle melancholy ; 
for the young joyous nature has long been rising: and Agnes, 
though she never can forget, laments no longer with the reality of 
present grief. It is no longer present — it is past, and only exists in 
remembrance— and Agnes is involuntarily glad, and will wear her 
widow’s cap no more. 

And Martha is dressing little Harry, who will not be quiet in her 
hands for two minutes at a time, but dances about with a perpetual 
elasticity, which much retards his toilet. There are smiles on Mar- 
tha's face— grave, quiet smiles —for she too has been thinking, with 
a few tears this morning, that Harry will be at the bride’s side, to 
join in the blessing with which she sends her other child away. 

And Rose, in her own chamber, in a misty and bewildered con- 
fusion, seeing nothing distinctly either before or behind her, turns 
back at last to that one solemn fact, which never changes, and re- 
members Harry— remembers Harry, and weeps, out of a free heart 
which carries no burden into the unknown future, some sweet pen- 
sive tears for him and tor the home she is to leave to-day; and so 
sits down in her bewilderment to wait for Martha’s summons, call- 
ing her to meet the great hour whose shadow lies between her and 
t)liG skies. 

And Lettie’s flowers are on the table, breathing sweet, hopeful 
odors over the bridegroom and the bride. And Lettie, absorbed and 
silent, listens with a" beating heart for some sign that Harry is here, 
and starts with a thrill of recognition when her heart imagines a 
passing sigh. Poor Harry! if he is not permitted to stand unseen 
among them, and witness this solemnity, he is present in their 
hearts. 


CHAPTER LIV. 

Behold I see the haven now at hand 
To which I mean my wearie course to bend. 

Yere the maine shete, and beare up \vith the land, 

The which afar is fairly to he kend, 

And seemeth safe from storms that may offend. 

Faery Queen. 

Agnes, with her relieved and lightened spirits, goes cheerfully 
about her domestic business now, and has learned 10 drive the little 
old gig, and sometimes ventures as far as Stirling to make a pur- 
chase, and begins to grow a little less afraid of spending money. 
For some time 5 now, Agnes has given up the “ opening ’’—given it 
up at Martha’s special desire, aud with very little reluctance, and 
no one does “ opening ” now at Allendcrs, except sometimes Mar- 
tha herself, in her own room, when she is alone. These three years 


HARRY MUIR. 


230 


% 


have paid Miss Jean’s thousand pounds, and one of Maoalister’s 
four, and Mr. Maealister is very happy to leave the rest with Miss 
Allenders, who, when her fourth harvest comes, has promised to 
herself to pay Mr. Buchanan For assiduous work, and Martha’s 
almost stern economy, have done wonders in these years; and the 
bold Armstrong boasts of his crops, and his cattle now, and is some- 
times almost inclined to weep with Alexander, that there is no more 
unfruitful land to sub-jugate and reclaim. 

But before her fourth harvest time, Martha has intimated to Sir 
J >lin Dunlop’s lactor that it was her brother’s intention to make an 
offer for the little farm of Oatlands, now again tenuntless, and 
Armstrong does not long weep over his fully attained success; 
though Oatlands has little reformation to do, compared with Allen- 
der Mains. And Harry’s model houses are rising at Maidlin Cross; 
sagacious people shake their heads, and say Miss Allenders is going 
too fur, and is not prudent. She is not prudent, it is very true — 
she ventures to the very edge and utmost extent of lawful limits — 
but she has never ventured beyond that yet, nor ever failed. 

And Harry’s name aDd remembrance lives — strangely exists and 
acts in the country in which Harry himself was little more than a 
subject for gossip. To hear him spoken of now, you would rather 
think of some mysterious unseen person, carrying on a great work 
by means of agents, that his chosen privacy and retirement may be 
kept sacred, than of one dead to all the business and labor of this 
world; and there is a certain mystery and awe about the very 
house where Harry’s intentions reign supreme, to be considered be- 
fore everything else. So strong is this feeling, that sometimes an 
ignorant mind conceives the idea that he lives there yet in perpetual 
secrecy, and by and by will reappear to reap the fruit of all these 
labors; and Geordie Paxton shakes his head solemnly, and tells his 
neighbors what the “ auld man ” says— that Allenders can not rest 
in his grave till this work he began is accomplished; and people 
speak of Harry as an active, existing spirit— never as the dead. 

It is more than a year now since Rose’s marriage, and not tar 
from five since Harry’s death, and there is a full family circle 
round the drawing-room fireside, where Mrs. Chartens has been 
administering a lively little sermon to Lettie about t he extravagance 
of destroying certain strips of French cambric; (“It would have 
cost five and-twenty shillings a yard in my young days,” says the 
old lady), with which Lettie has been devising some piece of orna- 
mental work for the adornment ot Agnes. But Lettie’s execution 
never comes up to her ideal, ard the cambric is destroyed forever; 
though Katie Calder, Idoking on, has made one or two suggestions 
wlich might have saved it. 

“ For you see, my dear, this is watte,” said Mrs. Chart eris; “ and 
ye should have tried it on paper first, before you touched the cam- 
bric.” 

“ So I did,” said Lettie, nervously; “ but it went all wrong.” 

And Rose smiles at the childish answer; and Mrs. Charteris bids 
Violet sit erect, and keep up her head. Agnes is preparing tea at 
the table. Martha, with little Sandy kneeling on the rug bet ore her, 
playing with a box ot toys which ‘he places in her lap. sits quietly 
without her work, in honor of the family party; and Uncle Sandy 


HARRY MUIR. 231 

is telling Katie Calcier all kinds of news about her companions in 
Ayr. 

Why is Lettie nervous? Cuthbert at the table is looking over a 
new magazine, which has just been brought in from Stirling with a 
supply of other books ordered by their good brother; and constant 
longing glances to this magazine have had some share in t lie de- 
struction of Lettie’s cambric. Hut Lettie is sixteen now, and Agnes 
thinks she should not be such a child. 

“ Here is something for you,” says Cuthbert, suddenly. “ Lis- 
ten, we have got a poet among us. I will read you the ballad of 
the ‘ Lady’s Well/ ” 


“ She sat in her window like a dream, 

She moved not eye nor hand; 

Her heart was blind to the white moonbeam, 

And she saw not the early morning gleam 
Over the dewy land : 

Nor wist she of aught but a tale of wrong, 

That rang in her ears the dim clay long. 

“ Her hair was like gold upon her head, 

But the snow lias fallen there ; 

And the blush of life from her face has fled. 

And her heart is dumb, and tranced, and dead, 
Yet wanders everywhere— 

Like a ghost through the restless night, 

Wanders on in its own despite. 

“ But hither there comes a long-drawn sigh— 

A thrill to her form, a light to her eye: 

Only a sigh on the wind, I wiss; 

Keep us and guard us from sounds like this! 

For she knew in the breath, for a mystic token. 
The words of the rede, by that graybeard spoken. 


“ The bridal robes are glistening fair 
In the gray eventide, 

Her veil upon her golden hair. 

And so goes forth the bride— 

Who went before to guide astray 
All wayfarers from this way; 

Whose the voice that led her hence. 
How that graybeard came, and whence; 
Known were these to her alone, 

And she told the tale to none. 


“ The fountain springs out of the earth. 

Nor tells what there it sees; 

And the wind with a cry, 'twixt grief and mirth, 
Alights among the trees. 

She sat her down upon the stone. 

Her white robes trailed o’er the cold green turf, 
Her foot pressed ou the dreary earth, 

Alone, alone, alone. 

Not an ear to hear, not a voice to tell. 

How the lady passed from the Lady’s W ell. 


“ The lady sat by the Lady’s Well, 

When the night fell dark and gray, 

But the morning sun shone in the dell, 

And she had passed away. 

And no man knew on the coming morrow 
Aught but the tale of an unknown sorrow; 
And naught but the fountain’s silver sound, 
And the green leaves closing in around. 
And a great silence night and day , 

Mourned for her vanishing away. 


23 % 


HARRY MUIR. 


“ But peace to thee, Ladie, lost and gone 
And calm be thy mystic rest. 

Whether thou dwellest here unknown 
Or liest with many a kindred one, 

In the great mother’s breast; 

The woe of thy curse has come and fled, 

Peace and sweet honor to our dead!” 

But Lettie, growing red and pale, dropping the paper pattern 
which Mrs. Charleris has cut lor her, and casting sidelong, furtive 
glances round upon them all from under her drooped eyelids, trem- 
bles nervously, and can scarcely keep her seat. When Cuthbert 
comes to the end there is a momentary silence, and Martha looks 
with wonder on her little sister, and Agnes exclaims in praise of 
the ballad, and wonders who can possibly know the story so well. 
Then fo’lows a very tree discussion on the subject and some criti- 
cism from Cuthbert; and then Martha suddenly asks: “ It is your 
story, Lettie, and you don’t often show so little interest. How do 
you like it? Tell us.” 

“ I— 1 canna tell,” said Lettie, letting all her bits of cambric fall, 
and drooping her face, and returning unconsciously to her childish 
longue; “ for— it was me that wrote it, Martha.” 

And Lettie slid down off her chair to the carpet, and concealed 
the coming tears, and the agitated troubled pleasure which did not 
quite realize yet whether this was pain or joy, on Martha’s knee. 

Poor Lettie! many an hour has she dreamed by the Lady’s Well 
— dreamed out grand histories for ” us all,” or grander still. 

“ Resolved 

To frame she knows not what excelling thing 
And win she knows not what sublime reward 
Of praise and honor ” 

But just now the sudden exultation bewilders Lettie, and there is 
nothing she is so much inclined to do as to run away to her room 
in the dark, and cry. It would he a great relief. 

But the confession falls like lightning upon all the rest Cuth- 
bert, with a burning face, thinks liis own criticism the most stupid 
in the world. Rose laughs aloud, with a pleasure which finds no 
other expression bo suitable. Agnes, quite startled and astonished, 
can do nothing but look at the bowed head, which just now she too 
had reproved for stooping. And Mrs. Charteris holds up her hands 
in astonishment, and Katie claps hers, and says that she kmt all 
the time. But Martha, with a great flush upon her face, holds Let- 
tie’s wet cheeks in her hands, and bends down over her, but never 
says a word. Childien’s unpremeditated acts, simple words and 
things have startled Martha more than once of late, as if a deeper 
insight had come to her; and now there is a great motion in the 
heart which has passed through tempests innumerable, and Martha 
can not speak for the thick-coming thoughts which crowd upon her 
mind. 

That night, standing on the turret, Martha looks out upon the 
lands of Allenders— the lands which her own labor has cleared of 
every overpowering burden, and which the same vigorous and un- 
wearied faculties shall clear yet of every incumbrance, if it please 
God. The moonlight glimmers over the slumbering village of Maid- 


HARRY MUIR. 


233 

lin— over the pretty houses of poor Harry’s impatient fancy, where 
Harry’s laborers now dwell peacefully, and know that their im- 
proved condition was the will and purpose of the kindly remem- 
bered dead. And the little spire of Maidlin Church shoots up into 
the sky, guarding the rest of him, whose memory no man daies 
malign — whose name has come to honor and sweet fame, since it 
shone upon that tablet in the wall— ana n^t one wish or passing 
project of whose mind, which ever gained expression in words, re- 
mains without fulfillment, or without endeavor and settled purpose 
to fulfil. And Martha’s thoughts turn back — Pack to her own am- 
bitious youth and its bitter disappointment — back to the beautiful 
dawn of Harry’s life— to its blight, and to its end. And this grand 
resurrection of her buried hopes brings tears to Martha’s eyes, and 
humility to her full and swelling heart. God, whose good pleasure 
it once was to put the bar of utter powerlessness upon her ambi- 
tion, has at last given her to look upon the w r ork of her hands— God, 
who did not hear, according to her dimmed apprehension, those ter- 
rible prayers for Harry which once wrung her very heart, gave her 
to see him pass away with peace and hope at the end, and has per- 
mitted her— her, so greedy of good fame and honor— to dear and 
redress his sullied name. And now r has been bestowed on Martha 
this child— this child, before whom lies a gentle glory, sweet to win 
—a gracious, womanly, beautiful triumph, almost worthy of an 
angel — and the angels know the dumb, unspeakable humility ot 
thanksgiving which swells in Martha’s heart. 

So to all despairs, agonies, bitternesses, ot the strong heart which 
once stormed through them all, but which God has chastened, exer- 
cised, at length blessed, comes this end. Harvest and seed-time Id 
one combination — hopes realized, and hopes to come; and all her 
children under this quiet root, sleeping the sleep of calm, un- 
troubled rest— all giving thanks evening and morning tor fair days 
sent to them out ot the heavens, and sorrow charmed into sw r eet 
repose, and danger kept away. But though Martha’s eyes are blind 
with tears, and her heart calls upon Harry— Harry, sate in the 
strong hand of the Father, where temptation and sorrow can reach 
him never more — the same heart rises up in the great strength of 
joy and faith, and blesses God; "Who knoweth the beginning from 
the end— wlio maketh His highway through the flood and the flame 
—His highway still, terrible though it be— who conducts into the 
pleasant places, and refreshes the failing heart with hope; and the 
sleep which He gives to His beloved, fell sweet and deep that night 
upon the wearied heart of Martha Muir. 


THE END. 


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225 The Giant's Robe • • • 20 

503 The Tinted Venus. A Farcical 

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89 The Red Eric 

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96 Erling the Bold 

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188 Idonea 

199 The Fisher Village 

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844 “ The Wearing of the Green ” . . 

647 A Coquette’s Conquest 


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137 Uncle Jack 10 

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146 Love Finds the Way, and Other 

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230 Dorothy Forster 20 

324 In Luck at Last 10 

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18 Shandon Bells 20 

21 Sunrise : A Story of These 

Times ^0 

23 A Princess of Thule 20 

39 In Silk Attire 20 

44 Macleod of Dare 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch 20 

50 The Strange Adventures of a 

Phaeton 20 

70 White Wings: A Yachting Ro- 
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78 Madcap Violet 20 

81 A Daughter of Heth 20 

124 Three Feathers 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. 20 

126 Kilmeny • • • • • 20 

13S Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 20 
265 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures 20 
472 The Wise Wbmen of Inverness. 10 

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67 Lorna Doone 30 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir 

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110 Under the Red Flag 10 

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315 The Mistletoe Bough. Edited 

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434 Wy Hard's Weird 20 

478 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daugh- 
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478 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daugh- 
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480 Married in Haste Edited by 

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487 Put to the Test. Edited by Miss 

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488 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter.... 20 

489 Rupert Godwin 20 

495 Mount Royal 20 

496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

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497 The Lady’s Mile 20 

498 Only a Clod. 20 

499 The Cloven Foot 20 

511 A Strange World 20 

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524 Strangers aud Pilgrims 20 

529 The Doctor’s Wife 20 

542 Fenton’s Quest 20 

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548 The Fatal Marriage, and The 

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649 Dudley Carleou ; or, The Broth- 
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552 Hostages to Fortune 20 

553 Birds of Prey 20 

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657 To the Bitter Eud 20 

559 Taken at the Flood 20 

560 Asphodel 20 

561 Just as I am; or, A Living Lie 20 

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19 Her Mother’s Sin 10 

51 Dora Thorne 20 

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73 Redeemed by Love 20 

76 Wife in Name Only 20 

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190 Romance of a Black Veil 10 

220 Which Loved Him Best? 10 

237 Repented at Leisure 20 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter ” . . 10 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

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£54 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair 

but False 10 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime 10 

287 At War With Herself 10 

£88 From Gloom to Sunlight 10 


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292 A Golden Heart 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

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295 A Woman’s War 10 

296 A Rose in Thorns.. 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

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303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 

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304 In Cupid’s Net 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 

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306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for 

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307 Two Kisses, aud Like no Other 

Love.. 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

411 A Bitter Atonement 20 

433 My Sister Kate 10 

459 A Woman’s Temptation 20 

460 Under a Shadow 20 

465 The Earl’s Atonement. 20 

466 Between Two Loves 20 

467 A Struggle for a Ring 20 

469 Lady Darner’s Secret 20 

470 Evelyn’s Folly 20 

471 Thrown on the World 20 

476 Between Two Sins 10 

516 Put Asunder; or. Lady Castle- 

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384 On Horseback Through Asia 

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508 The Girl at the Gate „ 10 

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361 The Red Rover. A Tale of the 

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106 Bleak House. Second half 20 

107 Dombey and Son 40 

108 The Cricket on the Hearth, and 

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439 Great Expectations 20 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings 10 

447 American Notes 20 

448 Pictures From Italy, and The 

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454 The Mystery of Edwin Drood.. 20 

456 Sketches by Boz. Illustrative 
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104 The Coral Pin 30 

264 Pi6douche. a French Detective. 10 
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328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 

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453 The Lottery Ticket 20 

475 The Prima Donna’s Husband.. 20 

522 Zig-Zag, the Clown; or, Steel 

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523 The Consequences of a Duel. A 

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6 Portia 

14 Airy Fairy Lilian 

16 Phyllis 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey 

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30 Faith and Unfaith 

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171 Fortune’s Wheel 10 

284 Doris , 10 

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517 A Passive Crime, and Other 

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611 “ As It Fell Upon a Day.” 10 

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319 Face to Face: A Fact in Seven 

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860 'if Sand... 30 


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20 Within an Inch of His Life.... 20 

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555 Cara Roma 20 


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358 Within the Clasp 20 


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72 Old Myddeltcn's Money 20 

196 Hidden Perils 10 

197 For Her Dear Sake 20 

224 The Arundel Motto 10 

281 The Squire’s Legacy 20 

290 Nora’s Love Test 20 

408 Lester’s Secret 20 


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506 Lady Lovelace 20 

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83 A Strange Story 20 

90 Ernest Maltravers 2 d 

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152 Eugene Aram 20 

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183 Old Contrairy, and Other 

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076 Under the Lilies and Roses — 10 

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449 Peeress and Player 20 

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345 Madam 20 

351 The House on the Moor 20 

357 John 20 

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377 Magdalen Hepburn : A Story of 

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528 At His Gates 20 


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438 Found Out 10 


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269 Lancaster’s Choice 20 

316 Sworn to Silence; or. Aline 

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539 Silvermead 20 


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346 Tumbledown Farm 


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10 331 Gerald 


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245 Miss Tommy 10 

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320 A Bit of Human Nature 10 


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355 That Terrible Man 

500 Adrian Vidal 


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206 The Picture, and Jack of All 

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210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 
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213 A Terrible Temptation 20 

214 Put Yourself in His Place 20 

216 Foul Play 20 

231 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. . 20 

232 Love and Money; or, APenlous 

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235 “It is Never Too Late to 
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4f Altiora Peto 

63” Piccadilly 


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252 A Sinless Secret 

446 Dame Durden 


10 

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157 Milly’s Hero >. 20 

217 The Man She Cared For 20 

261 A Fair Maid 20 

455 Lazarus in Loudon ;-0 

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109 Little Loo 20 

180 Round the Galley Fire 10 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. . 10 
223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

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28 Ivan hoe 20 

201 The Monastery 20 

202 The Abbot. (Sequel to “The 

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353 The Black Dwarf, and A Le- 
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362 The Bride of Lammermoor.... 20 

363 The Surgeon's Daughter 10 

364 Castle Dangerous 10 

391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian 20 

392 Peveril of the Peak 20 

393 The Pirate 20 

401 Waverlev 20 

417 The Fair Maid of Perth; or, St. 

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418 St. Ron an '8 Well 20 

463 Redgauntfet. A Tale of the 

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607 Chronicles of the Canongate, 

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348 From Post to Finish. A Racing 

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367 Tie and Trick 20 

550 Struck Down 10 

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333 Frank Fairlegh; or, Scenes 
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562 Lewis Arundel; or, The Rail- 
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270 The Wandering Jew. Part II. . 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Parti. 20 
271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II. 20 

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165 The History of Henry Esmond. 20 

464 The Nevvcomes. Parti 20 

464 The Newcomes. Part II 20 

531 The Prime Minister (1st half).. 20 
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256 Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 20 
258 Cousins 20 

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192 At the World’s Mercy 26 

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513 Helen Whitney’s Wedding, and 

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514 The Mystery of Jessy Page, and 

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535 Henrietta’s Wish. ATale 10 

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53 The Stoiy of Ida. Francesca.. 10 
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H. Riddell 20 

61 Charlotte Temple. Mrs. Row- 

son 10 

99 Barbara’s History. Amelia B. 

Edwards 20 

103 Rose Fleming. Dora Russell.. 10 
105 A Noble Wife. John Saunders 20 

111 The Little School-master Mark. 

J. H. Shorthouse. .. 10 

112 The Waters of Marah. John 

Hill 20 

113 Mrs. Carr’s Companion. M. G. 

Wightwick 10 

114 Some of Our Girls. Mrs. C. J. 

Eiloart 20 

115 Diamond Cut Diamond. T. 

Adolphus Trollope 10 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 
Rugby. Thomas Hughes. ... 2# 


cssxws^r 


TUE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — J belief Edition. 


Miscellaneous— Continued. 


ifil Maid of Athens. Justin Mc- 
Carthy 20 

132 lone Stewart. Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

|27 Adrian Bright. Mrs. Caddy 20 

149 The Captain's Daughter. From 

the Russian of Pushkin 10 

1.60 For Himself Alone. T. W. 

Speight 10 

±51 The Ducie Diamonds. C. Blath- 

erwick 10 

156 “For a Dream’s Sake.” Mrs. 

Herbert Martin 20 

158 The Starling. Norman Mac- 

leod, D.D 10 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. Sarah Tyt- 

ler 10 

J61 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 
on the Play of that title by 

Lord Lytton 10 

163 Winifred Power. Joyce Dar- 
rell 20 

170 A Great Treason. Mary Hop- 

pus 30 

174 Under a Ban. Mrs. Lodge 20 

176 An April Day. Philippa Prit- 

tie Jephson 10 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 

of a Life in the Highlands. 
Queen Victoria 10 

179 Little Make-Believe. B. L. Far- 

jeon 10 

182 The Millionaire 20 

185 Dita. Lady Margaret Majendie 10 
187 The Midnight Sun. Fredrika 

Bremer 10 

198 A Husband’s Story 10 

203 John Bull and His Island. Max 
O'Rell 10 

218 Agnes Sorel. G. P. R. James.. 20 

219 Lady Clare : or. The Master of 

the Forges. From French of 

Georges Ohnet 10 

242 The Two Orphans. D'Ennery. 10 
253 The Amazon. Carl Vosma^r. . 10 
257 Beyond Recall. Adeline Ser- 
geant 10 

266 The Water-Babies. Rev. Chas. 

Kingsley 10 

273 Love and Mirage; or, The Wait- 

ing on an Island. M. Beth- 
am-Edwards 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 

Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 

and Letters 10 

279 Little Goldie : A Story of Wom- 
an’s Love. Mrs. Sumner Hay- 
den 20 

285 The Gambler's Wife 20 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 
True Light. A “ Brutal Sax- 
on ” . 1 10 

298 Mitchelhurst Place. Margaret 

Veley 10 

911 Two Years Before the Mast. R. 

H. Dana, Jr — 30 


313 The Lover's Creed. Mrs. Cash- 

el Hoey 20 

314 Peril. Jessie Fothergill 2fl 

322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

323 A Willful Maid 20 

327 Raymond's Atonement. E. 

Werner 20 

329 The Polish Jew. (Translated 

from the French by Caroline 
A. Merighi.) Erckmann Chat- 
rian 10 

330 May Blossom ; or, Between Two 

Loves. Margaret Lee 20 

334 A Marriage of Convenience. 

Harriett Jay 10 

335 The White Witch 20 

336 Philistia. Cecil Power 2t 

338 T he Family Difficulty. Sarah 

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340 Under Which King? Compton 

Reade 20 

341 Madoliu Rivers; or. The Little 

Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

Laura Jean Libbey 20 

347 As Avon Flows. Henry Scott 

Vince 20 

350 Diana of the Crossways. George 

Meredith 10 

352 At Any Cost Edward Garrett. 10 

354 The Lottery of Life. A Story 

of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. John Brougham 20 

355 The Princess Dagomar of Po- 

land. Heinrich Felbermann. 10 

356 A Good Hater. Frederick Boyle 20 


365 George Christy; or, The For- 
tunes of a Minstrel. Tony 


Pastor 20 

366 The Mysterious Hunter; or, 
The Man of Death. Capt. L. 

C. Carleton 20 

369 Miss Bretherton. Mrs. Hum- 
phry Ward 1C 

374 The Dead Man’s Secret. Dr. 

Jupiter Paeon 20 

376 The Crime of Christmas Day. 
The author of “My Ducats 
and My Daughter” 10 

381 The Red Cardinal. Frances 

Elliot 10 

382 Three Sisters. Elsa D'Esterre- 

Keeling 10 

383 Introduced to Society. Hamil- 

ton Aid 6 10 

387 The Secret of the Cliffs. Char- 
lotte French 20 

389 Ichabod. A Portrait. Bertha 

Thomas 10 

399 Miss Brown. Vernon Lee 20 

403 An English Squire. C. R. Cole- 
ridge 20 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

406 The Merchant’s Clerk. Samuel 

Warren 10 

407 Tylney Hall. Thomas Hood. . . 20 
426 Venus's Doves. Ida Ashworth 

Taylor 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition, 


Miscellaneous— Continued. 


429 Boulderstone; or. New Men and 

Old Populations. William 
Sime 10 

430 A Bitter Reckoning 1 . Author 

of “By Crooked Paths ”... . 10 

432 The Witch’s Head. H. Rider 
Haggard 20 

435 Klytia: A Story of Heidelberg 

Castle. George Taylor 20 

436 Stella. Fanny Lewald 20 

441 A Sea Change. Flora L. Shaw. 20 

442 Ranthorpe. George Henry 

Lewes 20 

443 The Bachelor of the Albany... 10 
450 Godfrey Helstone. Georgiana 

M. Craik 20 

452 In the West Countrie. May 

Crommelin 20 

457 The Russians at the Gates of 

Herat. Charles Marvin 10 

<68 A Week of Passion ; or, The 
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ton the Younger. Edward 

Jenkins 20 

i€ 2 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
land. Lewis Carrol 

With forty-two illustrations 

by John Tenuiel 20 

468 The Fortunes, Good and Bad, 
of a Sewing-Girl. Charlotte 

M. Stanley 10 

173 A Lost Son. Mary Linskill 10 


474 Serapis. An Historical Novel. 

George Ebers 29 

479 Louisa. Katharine S. Macquoid 29 

483 Betwixt My Love and Me 10 

485 Tinted Vapours. J. Maclaren 

Cobban 10 

49*1 Society in London. A Foreign 

Resident *0 

402 Mignon ; or, Booties’ Baby. Il- 
lustrated. J. S. Winter 10 

493 Colonel Euderby’s Wife. Lucas 

Malet 20 

501 Mr. Butler’s Ward. F. Mabel 

Robinson 20 

510 A Mad Love. Author of “ Lover 

and Lord” 10 

512 The Waters of Hercules 20 

504 Curly: An Actor’s Story. John 

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505 The Society of Loudon. Count 

Paul Vasili 1ft 

509 Nell Haffenden. Tighe Hopkins 20 

518 The Hidden Sin 20 

519 James Gordon's Wife 20 

526 Madame De Presnel. E. Fran- 
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532 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 20 

534 Jack. Alphonse Daudet 2# 

536 Dissolving Views. Bj r Mrs. An- 
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540 At a High Price. E. Werner.. 20 

545 Vida’s Story. By the author of 

“ Guiity Without Crime ” 10 

546 Mrs. Keith’s Crime. A Novel.. 10 


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516 Put Asunder; or. Lady Castle- 

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517 A Passive Crime, and Other 

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518 The Hidden Sin. A Novel 20 

519 James Gordon’s Wife. A Novel. 20 

520 She’s All the World to Me. By 

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521 Entangled. E. Fairfax Byrrne 20 

522 Zig-Zag, the Clown ; or, The 

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528 At His Gates. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

529 The Doctor’s Wife. By Miss M. 

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533 Hazel Kirke. By Marie Walsh. 20 

535 Henrietta’s Wish. A Tale. By 

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536 Dissolving Views. By Mrs. An- 

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537 Piccadilly. Laurence Oliphant 10 

538 A Fair Country Maid. By E. 

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539 Silvermead. Jean Middlemas. 20 

540 At a High Price. E. Werner... 20 

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546 Mrs. Keith’s Crime. A Novel. . 10 

547 A Coquette’s Conquest. By Basil 20 

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549 Dudley Carleon ; or, The Broth- 

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550 Struck Down. Hawley Smart. . 10 

551 Barbara Heatlicote's Trial. By 

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552 Hostages to Fortune. By Miss 

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553 Birds of Prey. By 'Miss M. E. 

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554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. By 

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555 Cara Roma. By Miss Grant.. . . 20 

556 A Prince of Darkness. By F. 

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558 Poverty Corner. By G. Manville 

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562 Lewis Arundel; or, The Rail- 
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564 At Bay. By Mrs. Alexander... 10 

565 No Medium. By Annie Thomas. 10 

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568 The Perpetual Curate. By Mrs. 

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569 Harry Muir. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

571 Paul Crew’s Story. By Alice 

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572 Healey. By Jessie Fotliergill.. 20 

573 Love’s Harvest. B. L. Farjeon 20 

575 The Finger of Fate. By Cap- 
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30 Her Dearest Foe . 20 

36 The Wooing O’t .... 20 

46 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

370 Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

400 Which Shall it Be? 20 

532 Maid, Wife, or Widow 10 

1231 The Freres 2G 

1259 Valerie’s Fate 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap , ; . „ . 20 

1502 The Australian Aunt 10 

1595 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

1721 The Executor 20 

1934 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid 10 

WILLIAM BLACK’S WORKS. 

13 A Princess of Thule. 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth 10 

47 In Silk Attire 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton, 10 

61 Kilmeny. , „ . „ JO 


THE SEASIDE LIEU AD T — Ordinary Edition. 


53 The Monarch of Mincing Lane 10 

79 Madcap Violet (small type) 10 

004 Madcap Violet (large type).. 20 

242 The Three Feathers 10 

390 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena. 10 

417 Macleod of Dare 20 

451 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart 10 

568 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 10 

816 White Wings: A Yachting Romance 10 

826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

950 Sunrise: A Story of These Times 20 

1025 The Pupil of Aurelius 10 

1032 Tlmt Beautiful Wretch 10 

1101 The Four MacNicols 10 

1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 

1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People 10 

1556 Shandon Bells 20 

1683 Yolande 20 

1893 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Affairs and other Advent- 
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MISS M. E. BRAJDDON’S WORKS. 

26 Aurora Floyd 26 

69 To the Bitter End 20 

89 The Lovels of Arden 20 

95 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

109 Eleanor’s Victory 20 

114 Darrell Markham 16 

140" The Lady Lisle 10 

171 Hostages to Fortune. 20 

190 Henry Dunbar 26 

215 Birds of Prey 20 

235 An Open Verdict 20 

251 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

254 The Octoroon - 16 

260 Charlotte’s Inheritance. 20 

287 Leighton Grange 10 

295 Lost for Love. - 20 

322 Dead-Sea Fruit 20 

459 The Doctor’s Wife • 20 

469 Rupert Godwin •*••••• • • 20 


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481 Vixen 99 

482 The Cloven Foot 20 

500 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

519 Weavers and Weft 10 

525 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

539 A Strange World 20 

550 Fenton’s Quest 20 

562 John Marchm^nt’s Legacy 20 

572 The Lady’s Mile 20 

579 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

581 Only a Woman (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

619 Taken at the Flood 20 

641 Only a Clod 20 

649 Publicans and Sinners i» 20 

656 George Caulfield’s Journey 10 

665 The Shadow in the Corner 10 

666 Bound to John Company; or, Robert Ainsleigh 20 

701 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery 20 

705 Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

734 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter. Part 1 20 

734 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter. Part II 20 

811 Dudley Carleon 10 

828 The Fatal Marriage 10 

837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie 20 

942 Asphodel 20 

3154 The Mistletoe Bough 20 

1265 Mount Royal 20 

1469 Flower and Weed 10 

1553 The Golden Calf 20 

1638 A Hasty Marriage (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

1715 Phantom Fortune 20 

1736 Under the Red Flag. . . 10 

1877 An Ishmaetite 20 

1915 The Mistletoe Bough. Christmas, 1884 (Edited by Miss 

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396 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type) 20 

162 Shirley 20 

811 The Professor. lfr 


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329 Wuthering Heights 10 

438 Villette 20 

967 The Tenant of Wildfell Hall 20 

1098 Agnes Grey 20 

LUCY RANDALL COMFORT’S WORKS. 

495 Claire’s Love-Life . 10 

552 Love at Saratoga - 20 

672 Eve, The Factory Girl 20 

716 Black Bell 20 

854 Corisande 20 

907 Three Sewing Girls.. .... 20 

1019 His First Love 20 

1133 Nina; or, The Mystery of Love 20 

1192 Vendetta; or. The Southern Heiress 20 

1254 Wild and Wilful 20 

1533 El frida; or, A Young Girl’s Love-Story 20 

1709 Love and Jealousy (illustrated) 20 

1810 Married for Money (illustrated) ' 20 

1829 Only Mattie Garland • 20 

1830 Lottie and Victorine; or. Working their Own Way 20 

1834 Jewel, the Heiress. A Girl’s Love Story 20 

1861 Love at Long Branch; or, Inez Merivale’s Fortunes 20 

WILKIE COLLINS’ WORKS. 

10 The Woman in White 20 

14 The Dead Secret 20 

22 Man and Wife 20 

32 The Queen of Hearts 20 

38 Antoniua 20 

42 Hide-and-Seek 20 

76 The New Magdalen 10 

94 The Law and The Lady 20 

180 Armadale 20 

191 My Lady’s Money 10 

225 The Two Destinies 10 

250 No Name 20 

286 After Dark 10 

409 The Haunted Hotel 10 

433 A Shocking Story 10 

487 A Rogue’s Life * W- 


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551 The Yellow Mask 10 

58B Fallen Leaves 20 

654 Poor Miss Finch 20 

675 The Moonstone 20 

696 Jezebel’s Daughter 20 

713 The Captain’s Last Love • • 10 

721 Basil . 20 

745 The Magic Spectacles 10 

905 Duel in Herne Wood 10 

928 Who Killed Zebedee? 10 

971 The Frozen Deep 10 

990 The Black Robe , 20 

1164 Your Money or Your Life 10 

1544 Heart and Science. A Story of the Present Time 20 

1770 Love’s Random Shot 10 

1856 “I Say No” 20 

J. FENIMORE COOPER’S WORKS. 

222 Last of the Mohicans 20 

224 The Deerslayer 20 

226 The Pathfinder 20 

229 The Pioneers 20 

231 The Prairie 20 

233 The Pilot 20 

585 The Water- Witch 20 

590 The Two Admirals 20 

615 The Red Rover 20 

761 Wing-and-Wing 20 

940 The Spy 20 

1066 The Wyandotte 20 

1257 Afloat and Ashore 20 

1262 Miles Wallingford (Sequel to “Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

1569 The Headsman; or, The Abbaye des Yignerons 20 

1605 The Monikins 20 

1661 The Heidenmauer; or, The Benedictines. A Legend of 

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1691 The Crater; or, Vulcan’s Peak. A Tale of the Pacific. ... 20 

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100 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

1 02 Hard Times. , , , , 10 


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118 Great Expectations 20 

187 David Copperfield , 20 

200 Nicholas Nickleby 20 

213 Barnaby Rudge 20 

218 Dombey and Son 20 

239 No Thoroughfare (Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins) 10 

247 Martin Chuzzlewit 20 

272 The Cricket on the Hearth 10 

284 Oliver Twist 2C 

289 A Christmas Carol 10 

297 The Haunted Man 10 

304 Little Dorrit 20 

308 The Chimes 10 

317 The Battle of Life 10 

325 Our Mutual Friend 20 

337 Bleak House 20 

352 Pickwick Papers 20 

359 Somebody’s Luggage .... 10 

367 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings 10 

372 Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices 10 

375 Mugby Junction 10 

403 Tom Tiddler’s Ground 10 

498 The Uncommercial Traveler 20 

521 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

625 Sketches by Boz 20 

639 Sketches of Young Couples 10 

827 The Mudfog Papers, &c 10 

860 The Mystery of Edwin Drood 20 

900 Pictures From Italy 10 

1411 A Child’s History of England 20 

1464 The Picnic Papers 20 

1558 Three Detective Anecdotes, and Oth'er Sketches 10 

WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OF “DORA THORNE.” 

449 More Bitter than Death 10 

618 Madolin’s Lover 20 

656 A Golden Dawn 10 

678 A Dead Heart 10 

718 Lord Lynne’s Choice; or, True Love Never Runs Smooth. 10 

746 Which Loved Him Best 20 

846 Dora Thorne * 20 

0%L At War with Uerself ; 10 


TEE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Ordinary Edition. 


931 The Sin of a Lifetime 20 

1013 Lady Gwendoline’s Dream 10 

1018 Wife in Name Only 20 

1044 Like No Other Love . 10 

1060 A Woman’s War 10 

1072 Hilary’s Folly 10 

1074 A Queen Amongst Women 10 

1077 A Gilded Sin.... 10 

1081 A Bridge of Love 10 

1085 The Fatal Lilies 10 

1099 Wedded and Parted 10 

1107 A Bride From the Sea 10 

1110 A Hose in Thorns 10 

1115 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

1122 Redeemed by Love 10 

1126 The Story of a Wedding-Ring 10 

1127 Love’s Warfare 20 

1132 Repented at Leisure 20 

1179 From Gloom to Sunlight 20 

1209 Hilda ... 20 

1218 A Golden Heart 20 

1266 Ingledew House 10 

1288 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

1305 Love For a Day; or, Under the Lilacs 10 

1357 The Wife’s Secret 10 

1393 Two Kisses 10 

1460 Between Two Sins 10 

1640 The Cost of Her Love 20 

1664 Romance of a Black Veil 20 

1704 Her Mother’s Siu 20 

1761 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms 20 

1844 Fair but False, and The Heiress of Arne 10 

1883 Sunshine and Roses 20 

1906 In Cupid’s Net 1C 

ALEXANDER DUMAS’ WORKS. 

144 The Twin Lieutenants IQ 

151 The Russiau Gipsy . 10 

155 The Count of Monte-OristofOimpfefowi One Volume) 20 

160 The Black Tulip 10 

167 The Queen’s Necklace 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Ordinary Edition. 


172 The ChevaKer de Maison Rouge 20 

184 The Countess de Charny - . 20 

188 Nation 10 

193 Joseph Balsarao; or, Memoirs of a Physician 20 

194 The Conspirators 10 

198 Isabel of Bavaria 10 

201 Catherine Blum 10 

223 Beau Tancrede; or, The Marriage Verdict (small type) 10 

997 Beau Tancrede; or, The Marriage Verdict (large type) 20 

228 The Regent’s Daughter 10 

244 The Three Guardsmen 20 

268 The Forty-five Guardsmen 20 

276 The Page of the Duke of Savoy 10 

278 Six Years Later; or, Taking the Bastile 20 

£82 Twenty Years After 20 

298 Captain Paul 10 

306 Three Strong Men 10 

318 Ingenue 1^ 

331 Adventures of a Marquis. First half 20 

331 Adventures of a Marquis. Second half 20 

342 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. I. (small type) 10 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol I. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol II. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. III. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. IV. (large type) 20 

344 Ascanio 10 

608 The Watchmaker 20 

616 The Two Dianas 2 0 

622 Andree de Taverney 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (1st Series) 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonue (2d Series) 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (3d Series) 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (4tli Series) 20 

688 Chicot, the Jester 20 

849 Doctor Basilius * 20 

1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. I ^ 

1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. II ..... ^0 

1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “ The 
Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. Ill - 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordinary Edition. 


1452 Salvator: Being tlie continuation and conclusion of “ The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Yol. IY 20 

1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Yol. Y 20 

1561 The Corsican Brothers 10 

1592 Marguerite de Yalois. An Historical Romance 20 

F. DU BOISGOBEY’S WORKS. 

I 709 Old Age of Monsieur Lecoq. Part I 20 

709 Old Age of Monsieur Lecoq. Part II 20 

1062 The Severed Hand (La Main Coupee) 20 

1123 The Crime of the Opera House. First half 20 

1123 The Crime of the Opera House. Second half 20 

1142 The Golden Tress 20 

1225 The Mystery of an Omnibus 20 

1241 The Matapan Affair. First half . 20 

1241 The Matapan Affair. Second half 20 

1307 The Robbery of the Orphans; or, Jean Tourniol’s Inherit- 
ance 20 

1356 The Golden Pig (Le Cochon d’Or). Part 1 20 

1356 The Golden Pig. Part II 20 

1432 His Great Revenge. First half 20 

1432 His Great Revenge. Second half 20 

1465 The Privateersman’s Legacy. First half 20 

1465 The Privateersman’s Legacy. Second half 20 

1481 The Ferry-boat (Le Bac) 20 

1534 Satan’s Coach (L’Equipage du Diable). First half 20 

1534 Satan’s Coach (L’Equipage du Diable). Second half 20 

1550 The Ace of Hearts (L’As de Cceur). First half 20 

1550 The Ace of Hearts (L’As de Cocur). Second half $0 

1602 Marie-Rose; or, The Mystery. First half 20 

1602 Marie Rose; or, The Mystery. Second half 20 

1717 Sealed Lips 20 

1742 The Coral Pin 30 

1793 Chevalier Casse-Cou. First half 20 

1793 Chevalier Casse-Cou. Second half 20 

1799 The Steel Necklace 20 

1800 Bertha’s Secret. First half 20 

1800 Bertha’s Secret. Second half 20 

1841 Mermdol 20 

1842 The Iron Mask. First half 20 


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